


Uneasy In This Skin

by Still_beating_heart



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Background m/f o/o relationship, Blow Jobs, Bottom Derek Hale, Bottom Derek Hale/Top Stiles Stilinski, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Derek's not exactly typical alpha either, Eventual Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Its just a possibility in this world, Knotting, Laura Hale Lives, M/M, Mating Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mentioned Kate Argent, Mentions of Mpreg but it doesnt happen in this fic, Mentions of knotting, Obviously it's Stiles so he's not the typical submissive omega, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Pirates, Rape Recovery, Scars, Self-Lubrication, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Talia Hale Lives, The Alpha Pack, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, background f/f a/b relationship, but Derek has other siblings that have died, infertility concerns, omega bites the alpha, or something, reverse mating bite, that boy has some serious control, these things are discussed which is why they are warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:42:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 28
Words: 92,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27180088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: Upon boarding the Alpha Brotherhood's ship, Captain Derek Hale finds a bound and abused omega in the bilge.  Things ensue.----------“Derek,” finally makes it’s way past his lips, “Hale,” the kid’s eyes shoot up at that, then dart away again quickly. Of course, it’s inevitable really, there’s nowhere in this sea where Derek can escape his family name. His family history following him to the depth of Davy Jones’s locker. He clears his throat, opens his hand to motion Stiles up the ladder.His feet are certain, but his legs are shaky. Malnourished, chained, and unable to gather his sea legs.“May I?” Derek wonders when he takes a third shaky step.“No,” he replies quickly, forgetting his manners.Derek smiles in spite of himself. Moving to the side and awaiting the boy’s ascent up the ladder.----------
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 300
Kudos: 744





	1. Bag Of Bones

**Author's Note:**

> I sat down with myself and had a long conversation about how maybe it's time to try my hand at writing an actual original novel type thing. And then myself said, 'but it's the middle of a pandemic and my brain is broken.' So it has been decided that instead, I will write the major tropes. So this is my attempt at A/B/O and I decided to throw in some pirates to make it more fun. I changed up the writing style to try capturing something similar to speech patterns in days of yore... or something. I hope it doesn't sound too cheesy and stunted.
> 
> Not going to lie - I'm nervous about this one. Go easy on me...

Bag Of Bones

A bag of bones with blood red cheeks. Skin pale as fallen snow drawn tight over sharp edges. Dirt smudges on his hands, knees, face. A sheen of sweat glossing his surface. Shackled at wrist and ankles by various rigging to the beams in the bilge. 

The hold has been emptied, the souls there spared from slavery. Captain Derek Hale didn’t take the Letter of Marque just to become a slave trader. 

He lowers himself to his knees, the faint but potent scent of omega meeting his nostrils when the lad moves back. Scrambling further away, as far as the chains will allow. Bruises, scrapes, and bite marks litter his flesh, scattered amongst moles and dots of human beauty. The scent of blood cajoles Derek’s senses from where he is scabbed over at the restraint points.

Most in the hold were betas bound and headed for the New World, three omegas who were befouled by the rapscallion forces of Alpha Brotherhood headed up by a buccaneer by name of Deucalion.

Derek lowers his stance even further, holding out his bare hands in show of a non-threat. The lad’s eyes are wild, darting back and forth between Derek and the entranceway. Possibly plotting an escape route. 

“You need not worry Omega,” Derek keeps his voice low, soothing, “you will be given quarter. The crew of the Demon Wolf has been disarmed, beaten fairly in battle. Deucalion will be brought ashore to dance the hempen jig after being afforded a fair trial by the governor of Beacon Harbor.”

A pink lip gets tucked against white teeth. His eyes shine with unshed tears. Uncertain whether this be a stroke of luck or yet another crew of buccaneers to force his will. His focus drifts between Derek and the door. Hands wrapped round his knees, drawing them towards his naked chest. 

“Have a name, lad?”

The flutter of his lashes against his cheeks makes Derek’s chest tighten, seeing a tear gather there in the corner as he draws a breath. 

“Alright,” gathering himself, shifting to his feet while the omega’s eyes follow him the entire time. He must look a mess. Blood stained breeches. Torn and muddled blouse. A slice of flesh seeping red and pink into the cotton of his breast. Sword dripping with enemy entrails, “I’ll gather some clothing for ye,” as he backs away, a soft sound emits from the lad’s chest. A whimper of sorts, “some rations, a nipperkin,” he adds to the list. Derek’s never been much effected by omegas, not the way of the legends and laws. Making it perfectly legal for an alpha to capture and enslave an omega, hold them captive under the guise of mate. Omegas have become a rare commodity to most. Most who view them as objects, that is. Years of being torn away from their families upon presentation in their youth. Some who come from more affluent families are locked away in universities for the duration of their most potent breeding years. They’re the lucky ones. Most are dragged away under the cover of darkness by the first alpha who catches their scent. Not a thing their loved ones can do to get them back. 

Derek can only imagine what this omega has suffered at the hands of Deucalion and his rapscallions. It makes Derek’s skin twist, rage boiling to the surface as his eyes catch on multiple bite marks on the lad’s neck and shoulders. Bites that didn’t bind. Bites that were only meant to subdue. To draw blood. To establish authority.

The omega’s nostrils flare and he flinches as the scent Derek is emitting washes over him. There’s a moment’s hesitation before he squares up his shoulders, clamps his jaw and stares Derek head on. A spark of defiance in his bumbo colored eyes. 

Beaten, flogged, raped but unbroken and unbonded. 

Derek takes another step back, nearly beyond the entranceway when the omega regards the movement with a second low whine deep in his throat. 

“May I approach?” he wonders.

The lad tips his head, keeping his eyes trained on Derek’s boots when he begins pacing towards him. The sound of them clacking across the boards, making the boy’s heart jump erratically. Captain’s boots. He stops midway, slips out of them, drops his belt to the deck letting his cutlass, dagger, and pistol fall away from him. 

Approaching a terrified omega weaponless and shoeless. Proving he means no harm. He needs no authority, and he will require no debts. He crouches down once more, close enough now that he can smell the boy’s natural spicy odor underneath the sheen of alphas who have claimed and maimed him. 

It’s not the first time Derek has been alone with an unbonded omega. Nowhere near it. The scent of them normally has a tendency to turn his stomach to iron. Ever since her. Derek takes a deep breath through his mouth, avoiding the way his scent flares with undertones of hers. Her scent as she lay dying in his arms. He shakes the memory, focuses on the boy in front of him, trembling in the cool air and damp confines of the bilge. Goose bumps pebbling his flesh. 

Derek opens his palm, revealing a pin to pick the locks of his shackles with. The chain tightens around his arm, coiling painfully round his waist when he pushes his hand out towards Derek. The tendons of his wrist delicate, blue veins interspersed beneath fine dark hairs. He hears his own breath quaver but the omega doesn’t react. 

The lock ticks, slowly he removes the iron shackle, revealing skin underneath that is blistered and broken with weeping sores. He bites back at the fury, knowing his task is to deliver Deucalion to trial, not to gain vengeance here without the law at his back. His fingertips tingle, itching to reach out and soothe, trace a healing salve over the boy’s skin. Instead he makes work of the next lock. Followed by the ones at his ankles. Untangling the rigging they’ve bound his body with. The spirit in him strong, clearly, as evidenced by the lengths the alphas went in order to subdue him. 

When he’s freed of the shackles, Derek takes a step back, giving him space to move with freedom that it’s possibly been days since he felt last. He wants to utter ridiculous promises, ones he can’t keep. He wants to kneel at the omega’s feet and offer him all the riches in the world, the freedom of the open sea, and an education of the finest university. Instead, he watches transfixed as his eyes skim over his bare body, taking inventory of the marks new and old. Derek keeps his focus on the teakwood of his eyes, not allowing his gaze to travel the pale lengths of him. His breath catches when contact is made, and lingers, waiting for something. Possibly still expecting Derek to attack and claim. 

He takes another step back, staying low to the floorboards, “I mean no harm.”

“I know,” he finally speaks. His voice barely a rasp, unused. 

He takes a painful swallow and Derek remembers what his task at hand was, “clothing, hardtack and water,” he keeps his voice calm, easy as he moves to standing. Gathering his things that he discarded on the way across the bilge. Damp eyes follow his movements and when his foot lands on the bottom rung of the ladder, another soft whine escapes the omega. He doesn’t want to be left alone. Derek could assure and reassure him that the crew is decommissioned but the fear they’ve beaten into him will not disperse that quickly, with nothing but the word of a strange alpha captain. 

Without making a production of it, without making the boy feel needy or weak, Derek calls for his quartermaster, “Boyd,” banging his fist on the top rung to garner attention, he hears the quiver in the breath of the omega at his back. The noise making him uneasy. Feeling a release of tension when Boyd’s face appears at the top of the ladder, “gather from Issac a pair of breeches and a blouse.”

“Yes sir,” Boyd does his duties without pressing for further information. Unlike the rest of his crew of scurvy dogs. 

Derek places his back against the exit, in a show of confidence in his crew. Letting the omega see that there is no enemy left to fear. This is Derek’s ship now. It no longer belongs to the Alpha Brotherhood. 

He crosses his arms, tries to relax his features, arrange them in an open expression before he allows his gaze to drift back to the naked omega across the bilge. His skin prickles with heat as his eyes travel the curve of his neck, only to twist with anger when the welts and marks of a cat o’ nine tails criss-crossed in blood across his broad shoulders and slim back become visible as he turns away from Derek to hide his nudity as best he can. 

Derek shudders, pinches his eyes closed and turns his back on the boy again. His hand rising to clamp down on the ladder, gripping so tight his knuckles turn white. The wood cracks and splinters slightly before he pulls back, taking a deep, calming breath. Visions of ripping Deucalion limb from limb flashing across his mind in vibrant reels of blood and gore.

Boyd’s features are drawn with concern when he reappears at the hatch to the hold. Derek nods silently at him, accepting a folded pile of Isaac’s clothing, “nourishment,” he orders in one firm word. Boyd nods solemnly and turns on his heel. 

Derek keeps his eyes trained above the shoulders of the omega this time. Clearing his throat as he takes the steps, sloshing through bilge water between him and the lad, “Isaac is a beta,” explaining when he sets the cotton breeches and blouse on the chest next to the omega, “they may be a little big, but he’s the narrowest deck-hand I have,” nodding when brown eyes meet his and his long, pale fingers slide over the clothing. 

His lips are chapped, crusted with blood, a small trickle of it seeping over the corner and pooling near his cheek. Derek resists the urge to smudge it out. He nods once again, turning his back to allow him privacy. 

Beta scented clothing will do nothing to trigger a visceral reaction in an omega. He listens to the swish of fabric, the pained grunt that escapes the lad makes Derek want to turn, take his arm, steady him, help him and offer him support. But he knows, after the things he’s been through, the touch of an alpha will make him cower in fear. Even an alpha who means no harm. Or worse, it may cause him to offer his body for the taking. Derek closes his eyes, a slight tremor shaking his core, waiting for the boy to finish dressing. 

The first breath Derek takes through his nose reveals the welcome scent of Isaac as a shield over the spice and sharp tang of the omega’s pain. He turns when the noise of dressing halts, meeting the boy’s eyes, “have a name?”

“Stiles,” his fingers fidget at the cuff of the too long sleeve, “Captain,” he adds on afterthought, “apologies.”

Derek waves it off, “no formalities. Stiles,” he lets it fill his mouth, roll off his tongue gently, like a sweet he’d love to savor. Those warm rum and honey drizzled eyes darting across his mouth as the name exits. 

His hands fold together in front of his body, tucking and tugging at the cuffs of his sleeves as a pink blush creeps into his cheeks. He’s wiped the blood out of the corner of his mouth with his right sleeve, leaving a pink stain along the hem. 

“Derek,” finally makes it’s way past his lips, “Hale,” the kid’s eyes shoot up at that, then dart away again quickly. Of course, it’s inevitable really, there’s nowhere in this sea where Derek can escape his family name. His family history following him to the depth of Davy Jones’s locker. He clears his throat, opens his hand to motion Stiles up the ladder. 

His feet are certain, but his legs are shaky. Malnourished, chained, and unable to gather his sea legs. 

“May I?” Derek wonders when he takes a third shaky step.

“No,” he replies quickly, forgetting his manners. 

Derek smiles in spite of himself. Moving to the side and awaiting the boy’s ascent up the ladder. He follows at a respectable distance. Gaining the position to support him should he fall, but giving him the illusion of independence. He’s paused in the hold when Derek rises through the hatch. Looking around him with parted lips. All the empty chains scattered across the floor, chains where slaves were kept for the journey thus far. Pools of blood in places, smears of it from where bodies were dragged away.

His full lips open, close, and then open again, grasping for words when he spins on his heel to face Derek, “you killed them all?!”

“No,” he responds, bewildered at the accusation.

Stiles falls to his knees, scrabbling over the chains as though he can conjure the bodies of his friends and possibly family by touching the places they last were. A spike of anxiety washes over Derek’s nostrils before a wave of despair so ripe and raw makes him stagger, “you! You’re just like them!” the anger having forced his weakened body on an adrenaline surge to storm over to Derek, his fingers gripping to his blouse desperately, “you’re no different! You’re just like Deucalion, aren’t you?” when his fingers release Derek, they fly to his own clothing, starting at the buttons by his throat, “pretending,” his voice chokes off momentarily, eyes filling with salty tears. Before he can blink them back a single drop cuts through the dirt on his cheek, and slips towards the corner of his lips, “that I could trust you, so you could just,” his fingers are flying down buttons, yanking, tugging the blouse out from the waist of his breeches.

Derek’s hands move faster than his brain does, slowly reaching out to cup his cold fingers, stopping his progress on undressing, “stop,” steeling his voice to project a calm command.

His eyes goes wide at the skin on skin contact and something twists inside Derek’s chest, tightening to a point of near suffocation before he draws back, admitting firmly, “I’m nothing like them. Go,” pointing to the steps up to the main deck, “see for yourself.”

Eyes narrowing in suspicion, body quivering now with the exertion, but enough anger still zapping through his nerves to trick his muscles into carrying forward. Up and onto the fresh salty air of the main deck. He blinks rapidly as the bright sun pouring through the sky and dancing reflections off the water. Derek stops just behind the boy. His hands flying up from his sides to cover his face, a sob ripping from his chest as he sinks to his knees on the deck. The sound perking the attention of another lad, a beta who carries undertones of alpha, one that had quickly taken up arms against his captors but insisted upon fair trial and justice on the mainland. Derek had already decided upon quarter, no parley necessary but he was impressed with the boy’s natural leadership skills. He nods at the boy now, as he makes his way through the deck-hands, quickly coming to the side of the omega and throwing his arms around him. Stiles grips him just as firmly, hiding his face in the beta’s neck, whispering words between them that Derek tunes out, allowing them the privacy they deserve. 

———————

Stiles follows him like a too thin, fidgety shadow for the rest of the day. Chewing on his thumbnails, eyes skittering nervously around the ships. Derek’s hands already know the routine. Scrubbing the Alpha’s ship clean with holystones, storing the bodies below deck, chaining and tethering the survivors of the Alpha crew. 

He’s asked if he can provide a service. But Derek can’t even begin to fathom how he’s still on his own two feet, he’d be hard pressed to find something he can do without straining what’s left of his strength. So a jittery shadow Derek shall have.

Every time he passes something edible to his long, cold fingers, he eats it without complaint. Derek is uncertain of how much his underfed form, abused digestive system can handle in one sitting so he’s rationing small bits. He barely speaks, but he’s always moving, lips pursing, releasing in patterns of three. Fingers tapping a beat similar to the ocean’s waves against the bow of the ship. 

When it becomes late in the evening and the Alpha ship is cleaned to his approval, Derek makes headway towards the Triskelion, sweeping his arm in front of him to motion Stiles walk the gangplank ahead of him. His nervous energy seems to be ebbing, his body catching up with itself, wearing down with heavy exhaustion and ill treatment. How long he was chained is anyone’s guess. Derek lays a tentative hand on his lower back, providing what he can of support and strength while fighting the urge to toss him over his shoulder and carry him. 

At the contact, a flash of electricity sparks through his nerves, forcing a deep breath that does nothing to calm the restlessness inside of him. They cross amidship, Derek releasing his hold as soon as the lad’s feet are on deck.

Argent offers a small bow, awaiting Derek’s nod before he speaks, “we shall sup half past the hour. Your quarters have been prepared Captain.”

Derek nods, releasing the servant without a word and taking the grateful steps towards his quarters. Stiles’s presence falters at the door, uncertain of whether to enter. He rocks on the balls of his bare feet and Derek makes mental note to find him suitable boots.

“Enter,” his voice placating, eyes lingering on the washed river stone feel of the omega’s gaze.

“I,” his graceful fingers rise, combing through his oil slicked hair, “it’s,” the fingers graze across the breast of his blouse, dipping into the pocket of his breeches, a pink flush caressing his cheeks.

Derek tilts his head towards the basin of water, “please. Bathe at ready,” slipping his boots off, releasing his belt to lay his weapons on the table. He pulls up a seat, being certain his back is towards Stiles and the bathing basin. 

His hesitation is well warranted, and Derek is not going to pressure him. Wanting him to feel comfortable entering an alpha’s chambers, knowing he will come to no harm. He’s well into cleaning and sharpening his blades before Stiles clicks the door shut, and begins slowly stripping. The sound of water sluicing off his flesh makes heat coil in Derek’s belly, doubling down on his efforts at the table, training his mind to fall into the rhythm and pattern of his weaponry to avoid any scents that may startle the omega, or make him feel insecure. 

Once bathed and redressed, the presence that Derek is unused to in his chambers, makes a slow trek towards him. Deft fingers reaching from where he’s taken stance at his back, unbuttoning buttons. Derek shrugs him off, “no need,” he tells him sincerely. Derek is in no position to take an omega, has no want for one. He has servants, but no slaves. His servants owe a debt to him after what their family did to his. They shall pay it and be freed. 

His breath catches in his throat when Stiles’s fingers flutter over his breast, “I have some medical knowledge,” admitting quietly.

“No need,” Derek responds once more. 

“Your wound is still bleeding Captain. You’ll need…”

“No need,” now he turns his head to land eyes on the lad. He has no desire to raise his voice. But he has no desire for the boy to see his bare chest. He has no desire for anyone to see him bare. 

“Oh, I’m an easily tempted omega with no control over his hormones. I’ll see you shirtless and throw my body to your mercies and desires. I’ll use my omega wiles to get under your skin,” his fingers skitter across Derek’s neck, leaving a lingering heat in their wake, “and then into your head. Is that the problem here?” arms crossing at his broad chest that will most likely be finely muscled once he’s properly nourished.

“No,” Derek tells him firmly, holding his gaze all the while. Derek remembers when he was a boy, learning that the ideal omega is expected to bow their head in submission every time an alpha not only makes a demand, but also provides instruction, answers a query, or generally makes eye contact. He remembers his older sister Laura snorting at that, her sharp elbow catching him in the ribs as she whispered, ‘when I come of marrying age, I shall seek an omega who never submits,’ a concept that Derek’s parents had illustrated within their own marriage. Talia was a proud omega who gained the respect of alphas and betas alike in Beacon Harbor. So much respect that she was elected to govern the island. She rose to societal status fit only for alphas after defending her position, her town, her family many times over. With the power of her mind and the force of her blade. She is not a woman to be taken lightly.

Derek takes a deep, centering breath when the memory of home becomes too much. His eyes still locked on the omega who's scent is utterly exhausted now, but the fire in his gaze hasn’t been extinguished in the least. Derek feels his lips curl at the sight, ducks his head as he gets to his feet, “sup. Please. I shall bathe and join you,” pulling the door open, he explains, “Allison will accompany you in my absence,” turning to her now, instructing, “take him to the kitchen. Join him,” dismissing her with a nod. 

Stiles walks past him with tired eyes, a tad weary, but the draw of food and the possibility of seeing his brethren overrides his feeling of security with Derek. Derek waits at the open door until they’ve made their way to the forecastle before retiring to his quarters for the night. The activities of the day beginning to seep into his bones, heavy with the burden of yet more blood on his hands. Though it be the blood of rapscallions, it still weighs heavy on him. The lone innocent murdered in the scuffle shall be carried shoreward for a proper burial. 

He rubs at the bridge of his nose, takes inventory of the dirty bathing basin and decides against using omega scented water to clean himself. Laving shall wait, he has some matters to discuss with his crew.

———————

Returning to the cabin after long discussions in the officer’s quarters, he’s exhausted, still filthy, barely able to stagger to his bed before his body collapses. He’s nearly sleeping the moment his head contacts the pillow. Only awake enough to inhale the soft scent of sleeping omega near. Something he hasn’t smelled in so long it makes his chest ache and a sliver of salty liquid slip past his eyelashes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I don't do beta readers so please let me know nicely if I missed any tags you deem relevant)


	2. Unless You Let Them

Unless You Let Them

Stiles can’t keep his eyes off the doorway. Waiting for Derek to walk in, in all his alpha glory, and sup with them. He’s found Scotty, who is chowing the food down like he hasn’t eaten in a year. And maybe it has been that long. Stiles’s stomach has been flipping between twisted with nerves and cramped with hunger all day. It seems the hardtack handed over by Captain Hale has been the only thing his body has been accepting. He stares numbly at his plate, thinking it all looks like very unfortunate slime. 

He tugs the sleeve of the too-long blouse tighter to his marked wrists. Keeps his eyes on his comrades every time the waft of alpha appears in the room. There are no notes of hostility or aggression on this ship, not like it was onboard Deucalion’s rig. A shudder tears down his spine at the thought of that dreadful man and he shoots a glance over at Scott. Scott, who stiffens at the scent of Stiles’s discomfort, slaps a hand down on his thigh beneath the table, offers him a gentle smile. 

He leaves his hand on Stiles for the duration of the meal, eyeballs Stiles’s plate and wonders, “you going to eat that?”

Stiles responds by pushing the plate in front of Scott. Allison, as the girl introduced herself, watches with wide eyes, but opts for silence instead of chastising him. Scott has been flitting puppy-dog eyes across the table at her since they sat down. Every time he does, her cheeks flush pink and she clears her throat, asks one of them a friendly question. 

Stiles’s mind is flipping though a million questions all at once, but his mouth is too tired to form any words. His body aches. He can’t allow his mind to go back to that bilge, to hear the sound of the chains, to listen to the sound of boots crossing the wooden boards towards him. He can’t allow himself to come face to face with the not at all distant memory of the bites and the belting, the restraints and… 

His legs act of their own accord, shoving up from the table. Hand landing on Scotty’s shoulder, announcing, “I need sleep.”

Scotty’s hand closes briefly over his and he doesn’t give him a moment to swallow his mouthful before he darts away into the crowd of the chow hall. It’s not sleep that he needs. It’s air. Fresh, salty air. Damp and warm on his skin. He needs to draw great lungfuls into his body to clear his mind. To tamp down the feeling of pain still twisting through his body and mind. The things they did. 

He makes his way barefoot across the deck, heading on autopilot to the prow. Leaning over the rail to watch the waves crest the bow. The starlight sparkling like diamonds on the surface of the clear, night darkened waters below. A wicked voice in his head demands that he jump. That he’s nothing but a soiled, broken, and scarred omega. He was dealt a shitty hand from the moment he presented and now his prospects are even worse. Now that his dignity and virginity have been stolen. Even as the son of a simple lawman he may have stood a chance of university or navy for an omega-inclusive program, but not like this. Not now. Those positions are saved only for unbonded, clean and honorable omegas. 

When he pinches his eyes closed against the salty spray of the waves breaking below, he’s free to release the tears that have been welling up inside him all day. Tears from the last week, or month, maybe a year for as much as he knows. Since he was captured and taken aboard the alpha ship. Separated when his scent betrayed him, when the strength of his brotherhood bond with Scott could no longer hide his true identity beneath that of Scott’s beta pheromones. Only to be humiliated and destroyed when a heat took him. Being taken again and again by every alpha on the ship. 

Stiles bites his lip hard enough that blood pours into his mouth, coats the inside of his cheeks and he reminds himself of what his father told him the day he presented. His warm hand on the back of his neck and his eyes shining with pride that was normally reserved only for alpha children, but he’d smiled before warning him, ‘there are people out there who break omegas for sport. So you must always be on your toes. You’re a strong willed boy, biology be damned, no one will ever break you unless you let them.’. He wonders what his father would say now. If he could see him. 

His trance is only broken by the loud, raucous laughter dancing across nighttime breezes over the Sea, echoing from the forecastle, signifying that the drink has been poured and all parties are loose and ready for a good time. 

Stiles hones his hearing in on the laugh he can identify as he passes the open entryway, Scotty’s laugh. At least he has that.

He knows as an omega in a strange place, it’s dangerous to be out alone. But he’s past the point of caring. He was taken from his own village in broad daylight. Making it clear that if an alpha wants, they will take regardless of precautions an omega follows. 

He takes a deep breath, letting his fingers trail the rail, cool boards beneath his feet, salty air on his skin. He’s uncertain of where he’s expected to go. Captain Hale has made no advances towards claiming, nor has he offered instruction. He’s different, Stiles thinks as he takes his time crossing the planks towards the stern of the ship. His scent is different than any alpha that Stiles has come in contact with as yet. There’s something in his eyes, the soft openness of his gaze, a stark contrast to the closed expression he seems to wear most often. 

A shadow shifts in front of him, and becomes a tall, slender boy who is suddenly standing in his way. He squares off his shoulders, hands behind his back when Stiles startles. Hand flailing up to land on his breast, holding his thumping heart inside his ribs with the will of his palm, “give a guy a warning noise next time.”

“Apologies,” he looks to be about Stiles’s age, “Captain’s orders for me to escort you back to his chamber.”

A million things run through Stiles’s mind at once. Every thought of Derek and his differences from other alphas goes crashing though his head like a ship’s sail under a boom chain. He feels his eyes go wide and his mouth open but no words will exit.

“If you please,” the boy adds, almost a whisper, just barely audible over the lulling of the waves against the ship. He sweeps his hand open to lead the way.

“And if I don’t,” there’s his voice at last, “if I don’t please? If it does not please me to return to the chambers of an unknown alpha?”

“Then I suppose you can sleep in the crew’s quarters. Take your chances there,” he shrugs.

Stiles looks back over his shoulder at the bow of the boat, as the bumbo and grog drunk pirates stumble out of the forecastle. Mostly betas. But there were hints of alpha, and even if he didn’t catch any scents of aggression while supping, there are no guarantees that nothing will rise once the drink is poured. 

He scuffs his toe along the worn boards of the deck, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he thinks it over. The man had denied him of cleaning his wounds. He had all but shoved his hand away when trying to remove his blouse. He’d turned his back on Stiles a handful of times, a move that not many alphas were even thought capable of. He’d been nothing but kind thus far. Taking a deep breath, he forces his gaze to meet the boy’s, as the breeze blows his beta scent over the distance between them, he realizes that must be Issac. Stiles meets his eyes, soft, delicate features that are better suited for an omega than a beta, satiny ringlets with golden undertones that hang loosely over his shoulders, “thank you,” he nods, voice cracking slightly, “for the clothing.”

Isaac doesn’t respond, only tilts his head towards the captain’s quarters and waits for Stiles to begin walking. Falling in line behind him immediately, keeping close to his back, closer than the captain did, but there’s no intimidation behind it, there’s no possessiveness either. Just a sense of duty. 

Once inside the chambers, he can still sense Isaac’s presence like a sentry at the closed doors. There’s no one in here. Derek never supped with the crew as he promised. Stiles’s natural curiosity isn’t long stifled. Taking quick note of how the water has been untouched since he bathed. The bed still tucked and folded neatly. The table with an unrolled map atop it. Propped against it, the captain’s cutlass. His coat is no longer draped over the chair. But his ripped and soiled clothing are nowhere to be seen. There is no wound dressing lying out. There is no bloodied rag as proof he dressed his own wound. 

Stiles watches the door for a long moment, (not really that long of a moment if he’s being truthful), before he dives into the cubbies and drawers inside the captains chambers. It’s a distinct possibility that if he gets caught, he’ll be reacquainted with the cat o’ nine tails. His not so long lost friend. His travels bear no fruitful results, mostly the tight wardrobe worn by all crew members, nothing frivolous but one set of long clothes. Made of silk so fine Stiles can’t help but rub it against his cheek. The jacket is beach blasted blue with silver and gold embellishments. The Hale family crest, the same three pointed spiral that flies the Hale family colors on the mainmast of this ship. The legend of the Hale family is one so rich and powerful that even storytellers in Stiles’s village in the far northernmost reaches of the land were likely to tell tale, sing praises, and relay current affairs. He grew up on stories of Talia and her climb to fame. He shed a tear alongside his own mother when news of the tragic death of three of her children spread across the world. 

Stiles’s fingers trace over the spiral, practically vibrating with power beneath his touch. It dawns on him that he’s crossed a line. Many a line. By trifling through an alpha’s personal items. He takes a deep breath, noting only the scent of Isaac, and closes the wardrobe with a quiet snick. 

He drums his fingers on his chest, over one of the many healed bites littering his skin. Reminding himself that no alpha with a reputation like Derek Hale’s would ever be interested in him. But if that’s so, then what is his goal here? Fetching Stiles to come to his chambers in the eve. Treating him with respect. More respect than Stiles has ever received from anyone, much less a man of power. 

He sighs, heavy limbs falling onto the bed. The day catches up with him nearly as soon as he’s off his feet. Without giving himself permission, or seeking permission from the alpha, he lies back. Telling himself it will only be for a moment, just a quick shut-eye while he waits for his instructions. 

———————

Stiles wakes with a start in a strange bed, in a strange place that reeks of strange alpha but somehow it doesn’t twist in his gut the way it should. Jolting upright from the soft pile of blankets that have been draped over him, his bare arms hit the cool rush of air, he can’t stifle the yelp before he tucks them back under. Patting at his chest to find it bare, his breeches discarded in the night but under-drawers still on. His body signaling that nothing is amiss, he’s not been touched or taken advantage of. The sore spots and the bruises are all still from previously.

His eyes dart around the room, taking in information faster than his sleep laden brain can process it, the table, the chair, the map, the bathing basin. The set of broad shoulders, clad in clean, light blue cotton that looks well-worn and comfortable. No longer the blood stained battle torn blouse from yesterday. Rushing back to him in one solid, muscle lined, dark haired, heavily bearded image. Captain Derek Hale. 

He turns at the sound of Stiles’s movements, his eyes meeting and holding Stiles’s, not drifting to his throat or his partially exposed chest. Showing an offer of modesty and respect, “mornin’,” he tips his chin.

Stiles’s whole body comes alive at the eye contact, embarrassingly alive. A stitch of pain hitting him between the eyes as the light of day filters in bright and intrusive from the windows overlooking the pure jewel toned waters of the Sea. He squints his eyes, pressing them closed when squinting isn’t enough, recoiling from the light to pull the covers back up over his head. When he tugs them up, there’s a waft of alpha scent that makes his body flair with a shocking amount of heat before he tamps it down and busies himself with drifting back off to sleep. 

———————

The next time he wakes with much less shock and little more dignity. This time having the presence of mind to peer over the edge of the blanket, allow his surroundings to seep in slowly. Hushed voices near the door, Derek Hale’s hefty shoulders blocking his view of whomever is on the other side. A female voice. Stiles doesn’t bother listening in, their tones quiet and calm. Nothing pressing them. 

He allows a moment of his biologically wired idiocy to gather soothing alpha scent from all around him, closing his eyes to narrow his focus to each and every wound. Taking inventory of stages of healing, from head to toe. There is something on every surface of his body. Some deeper. Some that will takes weeks to heal, some things so deep they’ll take years, possibly a lifetime. 

He opens his eyes again when a weight dips into the bed beside him. Catching the soft, multi-colored glow of Captain Hale’s eyes. Compassion in them. And that was not something he was prepared for. He hurriedly tucks the blankets back up over his face, using the hem of them to wipe tears that have mutinied his will and streaked down his cheeks with no regard for his dignity. Making him look ever the weak omega.

There are no notes of pity in Hale’s eyes. There’s no scent of it in the air. 

“I’m disgusting,” he moans more to himself than to the presence on the other side of the blankets, “don’t respond,” he tells him before he can even draw a breath to power his words, “don’t argue. I speak only truths.”

Derek sighs, waits until Stiles takes a few deep breaths, and then responds, “if you care to get out of bed for the first time in two days, brush your teeth and use the lavatory maybe you’d be less disgusting.”

“Two days?!” now the blankets come down without regard for where in proximity Derek is to Stiles’s arms. His natural grace and charm on full display when his flailing arms manage to make contact with the alpha’s face, catching a knuckle on his lip, thus driving it into his tooth and undoubtedly causing a fat lip. 

Derek recoils a bit, Stiles’s instinct is to cower but he fights it, instead remains exactly where he is, in exactly the same disgusting pile of sweat and body odor that he began this moment in, he feels his eyes widen, but he refuses to cower.

Derek’s hand, which is gorgeous, by the way, rises to slip the blood off his lower lip. He doesn’t even bother looking at the drop of it on his hand before it’s back down to the bed, landing on Stiles’s hand and squeezing gently as he gets to his feet without a word.

Stiles should probably apologize. Social caste dictates that he grovel. But he doesn’t. Instead he does something very useful. He sits there and watches as Derek returns to his maps. Swallowing a dry lump in his throat, trying to find some semblance of sanity in what just happened, and how Derek reacted to it by not reacting at all, not doing what is rightfully his to do and bend Stiles over the rail to belt him in front of his crew to establish dominance. 

Stiles is gaping. Openly. When Derek turns his head once more, eyes making things inside his body snap and spark immediately upon contact. He shrugs his broad shoulders, “well?”

Stiles’s mouth shuts with a click, he can feel his eyes bulge. He is making quite the impression, he is certain. He manages to squeak, “well, what?”

Derek makes a motion with his hands that loosely translates to ‘get out of bed’, “are you at least hungry?”

Stiles’s eyes slide over to the table beside the bed. The table that is adorned with fruit, “fruit!” he yelps it. Derek flinches at the pitch of his voice, but he doesn’t hide the smile that tugs at the corners of his sinful mouth quickly enough before he looks away. And there’s no disguising the scent of pride that dances across the cabin when Stiles starts popping grapes into his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the plan: consider this a WIP. And know that my goal is to post a chapter every Saturday and if I write far enough ahead of my posting, then I'll post multiple chapters on Saturdays. 
> 
> So... the trauma has already happened but it will be discussed before these two hop into the sexy times together. And probably continue to be discussed even after. There is an age difference between them, but I haven't decided how much. I'm going to go ahead and say that now Stiles is of consenting age, but he probably wasn't when the Alpha Crew took him. So beware those landmines I suppose. 
> 
> Talia, Papa Hale, Peter and Laura are still alive, but the rest of the Hales are dead (including Cora). Is there a fandom name for Papa Hale? I haven't seen one yet, but I'm still making my way through the wonderful amount of incredible works that already exist in this fandom :)
> 
> Bear with me friends, we're going to take some time to heal these boys... and in the meantime picture Hoechlin with long flowing pirate locks and a full beard ;)


	3. Owe No Debt

Owe No Debt

Stiles is a barnacle. Derek surmises it’s not such a bad thing. He has yet to prove the rule that omegas are clingy, needy, and dependent upon alphas. He has yet to prove the rule that they are frail or timid. He just seems hesitant to leave Derek’s side, or rather, his back. He is the barnacle that has not become a problem, only produces some drag throughout the day when Derek is uncertain of what to assign him. He’s ever eager to learn a new task, though his body’s still healing wounds and his gaunt frame has made Derek hesitant to assign him hard labor chores. Which, leaves little onboard a ship.

His friend, Scott, has proven himself rather useful. Though he has a penchant for the Argent girl and Derek has caught them more than once too deep in conversation to take notice of their tasks before them. 

The rare times that Stiles’s fragility and timidity show seem only to be side-effects of what the Alpha Crew has done to him. To which, Derek will admit is well warranted. So he’s taken to Derek like a shadow. And Derek supposes he may have set himself up for that. Allowing him to bed down in his cabin, rather than tempting his crew with an unbonded omega walking the deck and sleeping in the crew’s quarters. Derek trusts his company. He knows in the time that they’ve been around omegas in the past, that they have conducted themselves with honor and respect. But he’s certain the bulk of them have only been around omegas in a house of ill repute, where the rules are clear and the only men daft enough to break them are alphas. Punishment then depends upon the madam of the establishment, and the captain of their ship, or possibly the governor should the level of the crime require such. 

The crew of the Triskelion is made mostly of betas. The only alphas aboard are Derek and his lame uncle Peter who is in charge of the kitchen. Not out of pity, but out of necessity. Even so, Derek is no stranger to omegas. He is only stranger to an omega he feels such a strong internal tug towards when the lad is out of his sight. He tells himself it is only due to finding him in the condition in which he did, he tells himself it is only due to his alpha nature to protect, to provide. That he feel a need to nurse the lad back to health. 

He makes certain not to touch him unless necessary. He makes certain to give him the privacy that most would not when sharing a cabin. Though a foul part of his mind is constantly telling him to look, to let his eyes wander the pale lean expanse of him, dotted with marks of beauty. The urge is easy to tamp when he can instead see so much in the lad’s eyes. 

———————

Day six of their combined journey, with the sun unrelenting and the sea calm, he sent Stiles into his chamber early in the day. Taking note of his reddening skin. His tone befitting of a Northerner, without a proper hat the best act is to hide from the midday sun. Derek watched as he dragged his feet, his fingers like little birds flying out at all times to touch, to feel, to generally move about like a fish pulled upon dry land. He stalled by talking to Isaac, by chatting with Allison, by standing in a shady spot until the sun took that over as well. Then with a look of disdain towards Derek, he finally retired to the captain’s quarters. 

Derek, with the understanding of what it is like to be restless aboard another man’s vessel, called for Scott to be delivered to his friend. He’s never been much of one for having another person in his private spaces, but since Stiles has proven himself to be trustworthy and rather uninterested in anything but the books, longing in his deep brown eyes when his gaze flits over the chess board. Derek has not given him the explicit permission to play, or read. He rather assumes he won’t need it, that Stiles will take his silence and inaction as an open invitation to access any of Derek’s things. 

Derek assumes they will be in the mess hall, but they do not join the rest of the crew. He’s quiet on his way to retire for the eve, his usual mode. He doesn’t knock, as it is his own chamber. From outside he can hear Stiles’s voice, talking at length about something that he can’t quite make the words out, but seems to be a rollicking story if the laughter is to be considered. Derek allows a moment for it to sink in, calm him, and then die down, wondering if they’ve gotten into his personal stash of Nelson’s Folly. Pushing the door open, he’s greeted with the combined scent of his and omega. Something he wills his stomach not to flip over. Breathing though his nose. Rum toned eyes flit across the room, landing just briefly on his before Stiles is on his feet, knocking the pieces off the chess board with rosy cheeks and an apology on his tongue.

Scott startles back a notch, but doesn’t rise to his feet, instead offering calm words to his friend who’s heart is beating so quickly. Chess. A rich man’s game. An alpha’s game. A game for men of status. Not for lowly omegas who have been tarnished and tossed aside like trash. 

Eyes wide with terror, awaiting punishment even as he backs himself into a corner. Derek raises his hands placatingly between them, stopping Scott’s words in the process and taking the steps towards the table. He’s slow, making no sudden movements as he picks up each and every piece that has been scattered across the floor. Placing them back on the board for Scott to position them as they were. He nods at the lad, pulls the chair out with a pointed look at Stiles. His eyebrows dip in confusion, emitting no noise as he watches. His stench of fear making Derek’s stomach coil and threaten to churn his dinner like the storm they encountered only months ago that ran them ashore on the Barbary coast.

He casts his eyes towards the chess board, taking backwards steps. Putting physical distance between himself and the omega that his presence frightened. He turns his back to the table, goes about his nightly weapon cleaning and sorting processes. Listening intently to the timid steps Stiles takes across the floor to retain his rightful place at the table. 

Derek listens as his breath quavers when he sits. His mind already taking in not only Derek’s chemosignals, but also Scott’s. He can feel the tension drain in the air like a mast rigging snapping in a gust. Breaking just as quickly, as the clicks and clacks of the pieces being moved around the chessboard start echoing around the chambers. 

————————

The fright of early evening forgotten, their voices drone on like music putting Derek into a type of reverie he’s not experienced since his siblings were still alive. It’s nearly concerning how quickly he’s let this omega make himself comfortable not only in Derek’s bedclothes, and bed, but also his mind. He may blame chemistry and biology for as long as he pleases, for as long as Stiles is onboard this ship, but somewhere inside he already knows he’s lying to himself. 

Derek only peers over his shoulder when Stiles lets out a whoop of joy and gets up to do a strange victory jig. Derek’s never seen him so animated. Scott’s wearing a soft expressive smile, eyes lingering on his friend while he tips back in his chair and accepts defeat. It’s well past midnight, lamps fired and lighting the cabin in a dim yellow glow. As far as Derek can interpret, they’ve not partaken in drink nor supped. 

He leaves them only long enough to locate Argent and require a midnight meal be delivered to his quarters. Upon return, Scott is already gone. 

Stiles is sitting on the edge of the bed, his fingers dancing along the seam of the top blanket, eyes flitting between Derek’s and the floor between them. Derek won’t demand he speak, won’t permit him to speak, he’ll wait. The lad will speak when ready. As much as his voice has wormed it’s way into Derek’s mind and begun to soothe him during the days, he’s most often silent aside from the constant movement once they retire for the night. 

Derek slides out of his boots, those round eyes lingering on his chest as he prepares for sleep, “your supper will be delivered,” the first words to pass between them since he ordered Stiles to retire early.

“I,” he starts, then his eyes flit over Derek’s face, a pink flush creeps into his cheeks. His color has regained some tones of life in the days he’s been here, his cheeks sunken too far, much too thin for a healthy mate, but mating is none Derek’s concern. His fingers fold the edge of the blanket down, then tuck it back flat, dance along the seam before he finds his voice, “thank you,” just barely a whisper, eyes rising to lock onto Derek’s and hold.

“For?”

Clearing his throat, Derek watches his Adam’s Apple bob, stifles the fire that threatens his belly at the sight, and trains his eyes on the bumbo colored ones that are watching him intently, “letting me play,” his hand flits out, gestures towards the chess board now put away for the night, “it’s not really, you know,” hand alighting on the back of his neck, “a game meant for someone of my status. I assumed, I thought you’d, I mean, it was your right as an alpha to…”

Derek cuts him off by raising his hand between them, his lips part to speak, but Stiles will not be deterred.

“There are a lot of alpha rights that you could have acted on, but you haven’t, and for that I am grateful. I just want you to know that. I think it’s, um, it’s admirable I,” his foot slides across the floorboards, scuffing his toes against the boards worn down from years of foot traffic, his ears flushing red, an offer on the tip of his tongue that Derek isn’t ready to hear. Knowing that Stiles isn’t ready to give it, to give him anything. He owes him nothing, there is no pressure for him to make the offer that Derek is certain he’s near.

“It’s nothing,” he speaks over him, shutting down the opportunity to offer his body in exchange for the things Derek has done in the days since he found him restrained and beaten in the bilge of the Demon Wolf. He hears Stiles’s heart stutter, his breath catch. His chemistry telling him he’s been rejected, cheeks flushing ever more rosy. His scent has gone sour, Derek resists the urge to kneel at his feet, take his hands and offer comfort, “nothing you owe a debt for,” finishing in a weak attempt to soothe. 

His focus darts from his hands to Derek’s face, and back to his hands. Folded in his lap now, fiddling with the hem of his blouse. 

“Stiles,” his voice exits his body of it’s own accord, having no mind for Derek’s fool thoughts on the matter, “you’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes upon. But you owe me no debt. So I beg you, don’t offer.”

There’s a startled gasp, full lips falling open, eyes darting up to make contact just as the scent of supper is carried through the cracks in the door and Agent’s fist raps against wood.

“Enter,” Derek calls over his shoulder, taking the steps to create more distance between him and the omega who smells like confusion and comfort rolled into one. 

The food tray is set with expert hands on the table, Argent taking two steps away, hands folded behind his back, allowing Stiles a moment to look over the plate. But Stiles is looking directly at Derek still. Argent’s gaze stays on the floor, where it belongs, inquiring, “will there be anything else Captain?”

“That’ll be all. You’re excused.”

“Aye sir,” he bows at the waist and takes his leave.

Derek steps aside, moving the chair away from the table before motioning for Stiles to take a seat, promptly turning away to gather his bedclothes and change behind the partition before the lad can even take his seat. 

He’s busy stuffing food into his mouth faster than he can swallow it, much to Derek’s chagrin. He’s not a very typical omega. Pleasing Derek’s inner alpha to see him eating heartily. 

———————

He’s still awake when Stiles has finished supping, set his dirtied dishes outside the door for the servants to take to the kitchen. His back to the side that Stiles has been sleeping on, feeling the tentative weight of him once he’s procured some bedclothes, washed up and prepared for the night. Derek can feel the heat of him, calling to him like a beacon at bay. He pinches his eyes closed, taking deep breaths through his mouth to avoid scenting content omega in his bed. It won’t last. And he cannot allow himself to seek comfort in it.


	4. Becalmed At Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Blame Black Sails for part of the inspiration behind this work and some of the violence - I didn't even know what keelhauling was, but don't worry it's not described in any way, it's just mentioned as part of the torture Derek sustained)

Becalmed At Sea

Becalmed upon the Triskelion has brought about much information regarding Derek Hale. They’ve not moved in two days. The wind so dead it’s begun to feel as though they are suspended in thin air instead of floating atop the Sea. 

Stiles leans back against the rail of the bow, looking overboard to the calm sea, turquoise around them. Deucalion’s vessel still visible on the horizon in front of them. Half of Derek’s crew, including his quartermaster aboard. A man by the name of Vernon Boyd who is said to be fair, honest, and imposing for a beta at the head. The lot of the remaining Alpha Brotherhood is chained in the hold, awaiting delivery to the governor of Beacon Harbor. Stiles hopes they dance with Jack Ketch, every last one of them. He’ll carry upon his flesh the bite of each of them for the rest of his life, no need for them to carry on. 

For a bite to bond, the omega must reciprocate the emotions. Some, many really, bond when they feel trapped. As survival instinct. Stiles has come to believe it’s rare for it to be any other way. His father a beta, his mother an omega. It’s rare for that type of pairing to be legally acknowledged. The government’s involvement in arranging marriages between omegas and alphas became less common nearly one hundred years ago, mostly left up to the families. Lawless alpha groups began taking omegas against their will. If a family is well bred oft time they will arrange marriages before their child even presents. Laws in certain countries dictate only a marriage between an alpha and an omega to be legally recognized. Betas of course can marry other betas, they are the most free of society’s constraints, free to move between the classes, free to seek education or military training. 

As a younger lad, Stiles had shown all the qualities of a beta. And his parents had trained him as such. Even when he presented otherwise, they never changed their ways with him. Allowing him to learn and blend into society as best as he could. Procuring scent blockers when possible. His mother was no stranger to pulling the wool over the eyes of the establishment, as an omega herself, she knew what it was like to fear for her safety as a young woman. So she hesitated not when it came time to protect her son by hiding his omega status. 

It was only on his own mistake, months after his mother's death, his own slip-up that he missed a scent blocker when he was off at the market with Scott one day. He shudders at the memory. Biting back the sting of threatening tears and pressing the events of that day down into the depth of Davy Jones Locker. He turns his head to the sound of incoming footsteps. The ones that his weak omega brain has memorized already. 

The sun glinting off the surface of the smooth water, his deeply tanned skin kept mostly in shadow by his Captain’s hat. It is unadorned with feather or even sash. He is a simple man for someone of his status as far as Stiles can surmise. His single pair of long clothes only made beautiful by his family’s colors and crest. 

He nods a greeting when he takes to the rail beside him. Not speaking. The salty sweet scent of him is something Stiles could seek comfort in, if he allowed it. He takes a deep breath of the Sea to fill his senses, then dares look over at the alpha, “it’s hotter than a strumpet’s undercarriage today,” he uses by way of greeting. 

The reward is the slightest smile upon the alpha’s face. His lips barely visible beyond the coarse bulk of his beard. It loosens a knot in Stiles’s chest upon sight, an expression he gets the impression Hale doesn’t wear often. 

“You should be below deck,” his eyes skim the skin on Stiles’s cheeks, no doubt getting pink from the sun.

“Curse this Northern skin,” he sighs, placing this hands on the rail, “the fresh air, stale as it may be, suits me more than the air below.”

Derek nods. His hands taking place on the rail beside Stiles’s. Hands that are rough, calloused from hard day’s labor. There are scars on his knuckles, likely from hand to hand combat. Through gossip Stiles has learned that Derek turned to privateering soon after leaving the Queen’s Navy. He trained on the mainland, then was quickly transferred to Beacon Harbor where he was raised. He was given charge of the harbor. His mother the ever famed governor. It is rumored his sister, Laura, is being groomed for the position. His younger sister, Cora, a wild one. And an omega at that! A real swashbuckler, oft times adorning men’s clothing, masking her omega scent with that of her alpha sibling’s clothing and suppressants. Two beta brothers who fit easily into his crew without leaving an impression. A crew that was fated from the start, if the tales be believed.

Stiles sighs, his eyes landing in the hazel depths of Derek’s for far too long before he pulls his gaze towards the Sea, there’s not much difference in the hues there. He’s caught off guard when a hat lands on his head, Derek’s hat. Shading his face and looming over him with scent that makes his heart thud fiercely in his chest.

“Until we find you a proper hat, this’ll do,” and he turns away without allowing room for argument. Stiles is left staring at his broad back, strong shoulders and the curve of him as his build tapers towards his lower back, the perky globes of his ass. He shakes his stupor, averts his eyes back to something further north. His hair, flattened by hat and sweat. Plaited in a thick braid that hangs to his shoulder blades. There is a ribbon tied at the end of it. A ribbon that may be the most flashy thing about Derek Hale. Aside from his eyes. And his smile. The one that is thrown over his shoulder towards where Stiles is left standing dumbly, watching him walk away.

———————

“‘e were keelhauled,” the lass’s voice is low in conspiratorial tones, taking a large bite off her hardtack, leaning towards the middle of the table to tell the adventure of Captain Hale and his cursed ship, “for seven days,” she adds, chasing the bread with a long pull off her tankard, bashing the empty mug on the table, clattering for a refill.

Its Allison who pours the pitcher of mead, her eyes trained on the floor until they ever so discreetly rise and land on Scott’s face as she tops off his tankard with a shy smile curling her full lips.

Erica, the blond with the foul mouth and the gossip to make wenches at a house of ill repute look like saints, eyes Allison with a glare until she backs away into the shadow of the corner once again. 

“Rumor ‘as it, ‘is one-eyed willy ain’t worked since,” she winks at Stiles, “if ye know what I mean.”

He feels a flush crawl up his cheeks, his mouth opening to deny it, even if he doesn’t know for himself, not really. He knows that Derek has been respectful, keeping his back to Stiles at night. Leaving him with a privacy he’s not had since leaving for the market that day. He’s been providing for and nearly pampering him. And not asked for a physical thing in return. Maybe the lass is correct.

Before he can open his mouth to keep up the facade of his alpha’s (when did he become Stiles’s alpha?) virility, a waft of slightly familiar alpha rises from his left. The heat of a strange body beside him, and a voice, calm and resonant, “on Rumor’s tongue continual slanders ride,” a hand with burn scars mottling the back of it grasp the mead from Erica’s hand, swallowing the remains of the tankard in one gulp. Stiles turns just enough to watch it slide down his throat. His alpha scent hitting him full on, the visceral reaction is not to fear nor to bed him down. It’s as though it’s been muted, nearly pulled back to nothing stronger than beta, but still most certainly alpha. His eyes are pale blue, taking in the features of Stiles’s face one by one when his head turns, “you must be the tarnished omega who has been taking up much of my nephew’s time.”

“I,” Stiles begins, but cannot find the right phrasing to retort as quickly as he should. Before being broken by the Alpha Crew, he was bright and quick-tongued. Now he’s a dim bulb, a pathetic creature that should be falling on his knees every night to show his gratitude to the alpha that’s been keeping him. Healing him. Little bit by little bit. He decides that no retort is possibly the best one with a man such as this. So he simply nods, averts his eyes, and carries on with supping and drinking. 

The man’s presence stifles their table with silence. Silence which makes Stiles’s stomach uneasy and his tongue restless, wanting to fill the space with stories or jests. But now is not the time. A strange alpha who has the ability to intimidate two betas at the table with him, now is not the time for jests. Brash and playful Erica keeps a trained eye lurking just off the shoulder of Derek’s uncle. A man Stiles has yet to hear tales of. Though the name Hale has taken many a turn in village story circles ‘round the globe, he has no forename for this man in his mind nor on the deck. He is simply a salty alpha, incapable of more than kitchen service judging by his scent. 

With his plate emptied and the table still silent, he stands, places a hand on Stiles’s shoulder. A lame attempt at intimidation, whispering, “one would be wise to wonder why a man of my dear nephew’s status and lineage would still be unmated,” hand clamping down tight, “bid ye all good morrow,” releasing his hold to clear his supper wares. 

Erica raises her tankard with a look of disdain on her face, keeping her voice quiet even after he’s disappeared, “one be wise to wonder why ‘e ain’t mated neither,” she snorts, “though it be rather obvious, ye ask me,” rising to her feet, nodding her farewell.

Scott is quiet for a moment, until he can no longer help himself, wondering, “maybe it’s not such a bad thing,” gnawing the end off his hardtack, “what she says.”

“Why?” defenses rising, even knowing Scott means no ill will with any of his observations, even if what he means and what he says are typically two different things, “just because I’m,” unable to speak the words, instead gesturing with his hand to the general area of his neck and shoulders that are littered in unreciprocated bite scars, “doesn’t mean I won’t want,” swallowing down embarrassment, “eventually,” he adds, voice falling way to barely a whisper.

Scott’s hand lands gently on his thigh underneath the table, Stiles can feel his puppy eyes on him, refusing to meet his gaze as he jerks himself out of his seat, “I shall retire for the eve now,” announcing curtly. If he looked at Scott now, he’d see a softness and apology in his irises, this he knows, but he prefers to hold a grudge if only for one night. 

Not even one night. Actually. After delivering his wares to the kitchen, he stops beside Scott on his way out, to clamp down on his shoulder with one hand and plant a harsh kiss atop his head. 

———————

Derek has already bedded down for the night when Stiles enters his chambers, an oft times stifled part of his brain insisting it is their chambers when the mixed scents invade his head that is buzzing with bumbo. He trips over the too long breeches, and gets his arms caught in the blouse that is still too loose. Flailing hand knocking a box of trinkets off the table, he freezes, heart lodged in his throat as he waits for a heavy hand to put him in his place for being so clumsy. His hearing whooshing with his own blood, a deep breath and a few moments of adrenaline rushing past the rum soaked lobes of his brain proves Derek’s heart beat is still a calm, sleeping steady thud against his ribs. 

Stiles eyes dare to skim over his form. Mostly beneath the sheets, one strong arm laying atop in the fresh air, still warm and damp, barely moving in the open windows. He licks his lips when his gaze lingers for too long on defined and solid muscle tissue. A warm flush that he blames on the rum coats his insides before he can convince himself to look away. 

He creeps slowly to the bedside, willing himself to breathe to keep the rum spins at bay as he sinks down on the most comfortable bed he’s ever slept in. Being certain to keep to his side, he faces Derek’s back, watching his breath move beneath his skin and bones until his eyes grow tired, too tired to remain open.

———————

When he wakes with his face pressed between his thinly clad shoulder-blades, the scent of him tantalizing, causing Stiles to salivate, his body overheated and stomach revolting; he can hear that Derek’s breathing has shifted to wake though he hasn’t moved away from Stiles invading his space. 

Stiles groans as his body begins to zap back to life, a sheen of sweat on his brow, the air in here unbearably warm, his head full of cotton and his belly twisting, “I’ll never drink bumbo again,” he groans.

Derek’s amused chuckle shakes against his face, he moves to seated and the immediate loss of his body contact makes Stiles emit a pathetic whine that he stifles by shoving a pillow over his head and lying, “that was the bedsprings, not I.”

Derek’s responding laugh is the most glorious thing he’s heard all week. Maybe longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since there's plenty of terms and phrases that aren't super familiar to the bulk of us, I'm going to leave this [ pirate glossary ](https://www.pirateglossary.com) here for any reference that might come in handy if the contextual clues aren't enough. I have pretty much just had this thing open throughout the entirety of writing every chapter and it's still quite possible that I'm not using every term properly every time...
> 
> Sorry, this one's kind of short, but I think next week will be a double chapter post :) Thanks friends!


	5. Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about chess, pardon any mistakes.

Control

Derek doesn’t allow himself to worry over Stiles’s absence throughout the course of the day. He smelled of rum soaked misery this morning, the last Derek saw of him, assuming he’d take the day out of the sun’s incessant heat and heal his hangover. It was only once dinner was served that he started to grow restless, itching beneath his skin to check on his omega. Not his, he reminds himself, focusing on supping with his brethren. 

He doesn’t bother with small talk, or rumor mill talk once his plate is clean. He makes haste back to his chambers to check on the lad. Reassuring himself it’s just a rest, a day out of the sun. The Argents have, no doubt, taken care of his needs throughout the day.

Allison is posted at the door when he arrives. Her eyes flash upwards to meet his and she nods. Her jaw set in a stubborn line, body tense, at guard. It’s only once he walks beyond her that he scents it in the air. Steeling himself, with his hand on the door, inhaling as much salty Sea air as he can before he pushes the door open slowly.

His senses are met with the unmistakable scent of omega in heat. Rousing every pleasure center in his body and mind that he thought long dead. 

Layered over the intoxicatingly sweet scent of heat, is a layer of terror so thick it immediately douses all those zones that were so quickly awakened. 

“Stiles,” the door shuts behind him with a quick click. His back meeting the wood of it immediately. He’s not going to enter his own chamber without permission. Not when there’s an omega rife with terror inside. He hasn’t lit the lamps. Derek awaits his vision to adjust while he tunes his hearing to the pitter patter of an anxious heart, “Stiles,” using his most gentle of tones, “you need only allow me the knowledge of knowing you are unhurt.”

A swallow, harsh and panicked, voice tight, “I’m fine.”

Derek’s breath of relief sways before any of the emotion can take root, realizing his own scent is the reason for terror, “I will take my leave to sleep below deck. Argents shall remain guarding the door. I apologize for entering without knocking.”

“It’s your chambers. I should be the one leaving,” his voice growing determined.

Derek’s eyes finally adjusting to the darkness, sweeping the room until he finds him. Curled into himself in the tightest possible space in the quarter. As long and lanky as the lad is, he’s certainly made himself very small.

“Nonsense,” Derek finally responds, “shall I call for Scott?”

“No. Why?”

“Your friend. Comfort.”

“After being rejected by my alpha when a surprise heat comes on?” his voice trembles, “am I really that frightening and appalling? So many claims made, so many ships entering my port against my will,” his hand rises to slide through the tears and snot that are streaming across his pale face.

“No,” Derek lowers himself to his knees, “you are not appalling. Nowhere near it.”

“What is it then?” anger edging into his tone, a spicy cast to his scent, eyes sparkling in the small amount of light slivering through the windows, “I’m not good enough for you? I’m not throwing myself at your feet and groveling? Thank you, Alpha Master for saving my life in the bilge,” mocking and bitter, “what life?! What life is even to be lived now? I thought you might be different,” volume dropping as his voice cracks, “but you’re not are you? Recognizing a broken omega when you see one, what’s your plan then? Take me to Beacon Harbor and leave me with the madam there? Sounds like a good place for someone of my status.”

Derek takes a deep breath through his mouth, tasting the scent of him now, wishing he could wipe away the deep earthy misery. Before he can respond the lad’s voice rises, this time with a cruel edge to it, “or is the rumor true? Has your cock been out of commission since you were tortured by that same bloody picaroon who broke me?”

“May Jack Ketch enjoy the dance.”

“Why did you spare him? Why did you let him survive? Him of all the scoundrels aboard that vessel, you spared him his life? Why?”

An unbearable tremor of rage rises from Derek’s core, making his eyes blur and his voice quaver, “he needs suffer first,” his fists clenching at his sides. 

Stiles responds to his sudden rage by sagging even deeper into himself, a low cry escaping him before he can stop it. Though the rage not be aimed at him, he’s very sensitive to it. Especially in this condition.

Derek wills himself to breathe, to separate fresh air, the smell of his chambers, leather, book paper, soiled boots, metal blades, he centers himself with the soft feeling of home when his nostrils are met with the odor of their shared bedding. Clearing his throat, dragging himself to his feet, hand on the door to retreat, “I shall call for Scott,” if he had a tail it would be tucked between his legs. Retreating from his own chambers to stop himself from becoming drunk on heat laden omega.

Stiles’s head nods in the shadows, but his hands rise to swat away more tears. Arms wrapped ‘round his knees, drawn in tight to his chest. Rejection is bitter and unbearable. It’s fair that the lad be attached to Derek by now. He has been rather dotting on him during his time here. Taking a wounded omega into his quarters, it was inevitable. But if the boy is even slightly attached now, he may not survive a rejection. 

His knees wobble, and he sinks down to the floorboards once again. This time on his rear. Back to the door. 

“Will you still reject me when I soak through my breeches, writhe with want, and act in wanton ways, using your body to steal whatever pleasure I may desire?”

Derek puts a hand up between them, from across the chambers his scent is strong, but he’s not in the thick of it just yet, “I’m not rejecting you. I am respecting you. There is a difference.”

“Reject. Respect. Tell me in a few hours how that plays out for your pride and my dignity.”

“Your mind will be foggy with hormones. You will be not be sound enough to make a decision regarding your dignity.”

“Nor will you, Alpha,” he all but growls that last word.

Derek will not give him the honor of a response. This will not become a spitting match between two people who hardly know one another. It certainly will not become the thing that Stiles is expecting, is resigning himself to. His only experience with alphas being a thing of nightmares. Derek will not put him through that. 

The longer Derek is silent, the more Stiles begins to fidget. First his fingers, drumming along his shins. Then his toes, bare against the boards beneath them. 

The tiny disturbances on the surface of the Sea not enough to sway the ship. They need wind. And they need it soon. They have enough stores to survive the journey, but rations will soon be tight if the weather does not shift in their favor. 

“Well,” he huffs out at Derek eventually, after entirely too long of silence and stillness for his comfort.

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to entertain me?”

“Why would I entertain you?”

His laugh has a cruel edge to it, but Derek will use his heat to excuse any ill manners. Grudgingly he gets to his feet, acquiescing the omega’s request, “I shall have to light the lamps, and procure you a meal.”

A small nod in response, his hands smoothing at his clothing, being certain his breeches are still dry. 

Derek presses the door open where Allison is still standing sentry, she bows at the waist, “supper for the lad and pitcher of water.”

“Yes Captain.”

He rolls up his sleeves once inside his chambers, lighting only the necessary lamps, unbuttoning the top button of his blouse, his skin hot already and this only the beginning. He wills it away, gathers the chess board and pieces, setting up a new game on the table, shoving out the chair across from him with his boot and pointing a glare at Stiles who hasn’t shifted off the floor yet. 

His eyebrows lift over a pair of weary eyes, skin aglow with pink tones of the sun’s licks and the kiss of his hormones. Soon he’ll be flushed on his neck, and chest as well. Then the warmth will spread down his legs and center in his groin. Derek closes his eyes for just long enough to gather a breath of the familiar details in this room. In the moment his eyes are closed, he hears the shuffling telltale of Stiles’s movements. Detailing with his hearing instead of his scent that he’s nearing. His eyes land on Derek’s when they roll open and he nods towards the seat. Coming this near will be tricky. But Derek certainly doesn’t lack in control. 

“Your move,” leaning back to keep his eyes trained on the pieces, watching pale, shaky fingers dance over the tops of each of his army. Retreating to tap against his chin, the tip of his index finger striking gently on the center of his lower lip. Falling over the board like a bird who’s lost flight, picking up his first rook, looking skeptically at Derek, and opting for another rook instead. He leans back with a glint of determination in his brown depths. 

Derek is more than content to test his mind at the game. Challenges accepted and denied as the game ebbs and flows. A sharp rap on the door barely registers in the omega’s focused mind, but the scent of food wafting in when Derek retrieves the plate, makes his belly grumble an audible whine. He quickly covers it with his hand as though it’s somehow insulting, Derek simply raises an eyebrow in the direction of the food. 

“I shall wait,” offering when his eyes dart between the board and the food multiple times as though he can’t make the choice for himself. Derek saunters across the chambers to gather a book and place himself under the furthest lamp to begin reading. 

He may only be a paragraph into it before he can feel the lad’s eyes on him, meeting his gaze, cheeks flushing deeply, gathering the courage to request, “read to me?”

“Have you been educated in literature?”

“Yes,” he answers quickly, the blush deepening, “mostly,” he sighs, leaning back in his chair to set his food aside on the plate and explaining to Derek, “my mother was our village educator. My father the village lawman. She taught me what she had time for before she died. And my father, too fraught with grief at her passing,” his voice trails off, eyes darting between Derek and the book propped on his knee, “he tried. But without her, it was easier to send me to live with another family. Scott and his mother took me in. She had lost her husband to the last raid on our village, so she needed all the help she could get. She was our village healer, she taught us ways of healing, but also farming. My father visited often. Lent a hand when he could. With raids increasing in quantity, he had his hands full. It was only a year past my mother’s death that Scott and I were captured,” his scent turns sour then and Derek clears his throat. Knowing when it’s time to offer a new subject.

Reading aloud seems the perfect distraction. It works for the entirety of his meal. His scent with undertones of contentment, a full belly and a good story later, he’s nodding off in his seat. Immediately when Derek shifts to his feet, he startles, knocks the tray of empty supper wares to the floor and jumps back into the shadows, cowering to a crouch. 

“It’s alright,” Derek announces, making slow, efficient movements to clean the spillage, gathering it all and setting it outside the door. The scent of contentment gone, replaced with anxiety and terror once again. Derek chooses not to address it, instead takes his place at the chess table, rubbing his finger along his beard as he ponders his next move. The bishop is in his grasp when the lad silently makes his journey back to his seat, embarrassment cloying at the edges. Derek would assure him there is nothing to be ashamed of, but the scent runs so deep, he knows it’s more than just his startled reaction. It’s buried deep in his identity. 

As soon as his bishop is in his decided square, Stiles’s fingers reach out and move his piece hastily, making a mistake in his anxiety. Derek hesitates in his action. If he doesn’t checkmate now, he can prolong the game, keeping Stiles’s focus on this instead of his state. If he makes it obvious that he’s avoiding the win, the intelligent omega will be offended. 

His long fingers have risen to his mouth, chewing on his nail while his eyes dart around the board. Awaiting Derek’s move. He knows he’s trapped, but perhaps his opponent has not discovered this fact yet. Derek sighs, leaning back to scratch his knuckles along his chin. 

Suddenly, Stiles blurts, “how’d it happen?”

“Hmm?”

“I know the story of the Argents. And how they murdered half your people when they charged the fort at Beacon Harbor. I know you were sent to military academy soon after. I know your sister Laura is the heir to the family’s fortune and will most likely succeed your mother. I know the remaining Argents are now your family’s indentured servants, paying for their crimes thusly. But how did you, Derek Hale, the most well-known privateer in the Sea, highly honored in your Naval class at the Academy, get bested by the scourge of the seven seas otherwise known as Deucalion?”

Derek snorts at the onslaught of questions and Stiles squirms in his seat, his eyes glowing with fever and his skin beaded with sweat. He tugs at his collar, fanning his face with his hand, and forces a mumbled apology.

“No need for apologies,” Derek announces, “’tis a story for another day,” shoving his chair back to rise to his feet, “I suggest you get some rest. Tomorrow will be a long one.”

Stiles’s eyes lock onto Derek’s chest, chewing his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. A tiny red bead of it lingering at the curve before his tongue darts out and captures it, “how? How am I supposed to rest when, I,” his voice trails off, squirming again, this time to gather some friction. The scent of him is overpowering already. 

“I can provide you with privacy. I shall be just on the other side of…”

His huffy snort interrupts Derek’s offer, eyes narrowed when they land on his face, “this about respect still, Alpha?” Purring the title, as though he’s tasting the word on his tongue before he allows it to exit his lips. 

“Aye. It certainly is,” he taps the table, reaching quickly for the bishop to capture Stiles’s queen, “checkmate,” and turns on his heel to leave the quarters.

———————

Derek walks the deck after he excuses Allison for the eve. Taking deep, gulping breaths of the Sea air, stale with heat and heavy with humidity. But enough to cleanse his pallet of the omega just on the other side of that door. The omega who’s heart is a pumping a heavy, yearning rhythm in his chest. He heard him tapping on the chessboard, thinking through the moves that got them there, replaying it all in his head no doubt, becoming the ever more suitable opponent. He’s good, he’s very intelligent for a man with little learning. His mind is sharp and his tongue is quick. He’ll be a force to be reckoned with once a few more years of age and experience are under his belt. 

Derek thinks of his family, giving himself a break from listening to the boy who, with any luck, will seek pleasure of his own hand, thus giving Derek the freedom to return to the cabin for a brief shut-eye before his scent will be overwhelming once again. He doesn’t allow his thoughts to turn sour, he only allows himself to think of the before. Before that fateful journey that brought the Alpha Brotherhood directly to his bow. 

He thinks of his mother, of Laura. Knowing that Beacon Harbor is in safe, capable hands with the two of them at helm. Of course, it doesn’t hurt to have Lydia managing the house of ill repute, the ears and eyes on the street. Kira at charge of the army, a now fully manned fort, it was how the Argents got in. The fort was poorly protected, after decades of content, healthy, and growing population on the island; his mother had relaxed her military. Her trust mistakenly placed in Gerard and Kate Argent. 

He shudders, steering his thoughts away once again. Hands on the rail, he notes them to be white-knuckled as he watches the open Sea below. Reflecting the dotting of stars and the half moon above. Slight ripples here and there, but nothing signing wind patterns ahead. He sighs, his body trembling when the salt of the Sea is mingled with the salt of pleasure just barely notable slinking beneath the closed door. Tangy notes of self-loathing beneath the soft musk. Derek presses his eyes closed, rubbing forefinger and thumb against his lids. Confirming what he already suspected. The boy hates himself for needing to fulfill what his omega demands, and most likely blames himself for all that has been done to him. 

He waits until the scent has dissipated before he knocks softly, having heard Stiles’s body rustle the bedclothes as he made himself comfortable. A strained, “enter,” responds quietly.

He can feel Stiles’s eyes on him, chasing his slow movements, on edge, still waiting for the attack. Derek moves behind the partition to remove his day clothes, washing slightly and dressing in nightclothes. He’s slow to approach the bed, hands out, palms up, “may I lie with you?”

“It’s your bed,” he snarks, lacking the bite he intends. His eyelids flutter shut, a hard swallow, and a tender, “yes, you may.”

Derek lowers himself slowly, resting behind Stiles’s overheated body. Slowly reaching out to touch his shoulder. Knowing a simple hand will have more effect than any words could at this point. A soft whimper escapes Stiles’s chest at the contact. Derek shushes him gently in response, “may I hold you?” his voice breaks, it’s been years since he’s asked such a simple question with so much larger a meaning.

A nod is the slow response, he hears the lad swallow harshly, the tang of tears in the air but he makes no noise. His long fingers wrap round Derek’s wrist when his arm’s circle his chest. Sliding one leg between the omega’s knees, pressing a balled up cloth between them as a barrier before rolling into his pelvis to pin him slightly. The last thing they both need is friction-seeking grinds in the night. The body at first so tense in his arms, slowly begins to relax, taking steady deep breaths of Derek’s wrist as he projects safety and calm to the full extent he’s capable. He resists the pull of the lad’s neck, so tempting and so close. 

Derek instead focuses on each and every scar upon his own flesh. He focuses on each and every scream of his crew. Of his brothers and sister. He focuses on that ball of anger inside the very darkest, deepest corners of himself. He focuses on Paige’s horrified expression as they dragged her to the main deck, tightened the ropes 'round her wrists. 

His head blurry with images, willing away the scent of sugar and syrup in his arms, he’s nearly asleep as sense memory gives way to the present, and he mumbles, “good night Stiles,” against sweat slicked skin.


	6. Tender Rejection

Tender Rejection

The fever ebbs and flows like the tide. Stiles finds himself arching back towards the heat of Derek’s body more often than he cares to admit. But Derek’s solid weight half-pinning him in place keeps him from seeking friction. A relief to his mind when it clears enough to feel embarrassment for any of his actions in the grip of his heat. 

Morning light seeping through the large glass, scattering across the chambers, lighting everything in it in warm tones that seem so unlike the only other ship he’s ever been aboard. The scent of Derek lingers in the air, even if the man is gone. Maybe he’s gone. Stiles isn’t even certain. Everything is fogged over when he opens his eyes, like a hazy globe overtop of reality. Possibly why this chamber feels warmer and more comforting. Or possibly it’s Derek’s presence. The dip of the bedding with his weight beside Stiles’s hip, his calloused hand gentle when it swipes hair off his forehead, lingering there when an appalling whimper escapes him. 

The sound of water in a basin filters into his mind, a cool rag being pressed to his forehead, temples, tenderly wiping sweat from his brow. The entire bed is a pool of Stiles’s bodily fluids. Every part of him slippery and too hot. 

He’s certain the Alpha Brotherhood not only broke his mind and spirit, but also his body. The deep primal ache to be filled won’t ebb, but there’s no thirst in him for sexual acts. He’s always heard that omegas were insatiable throughout a heat. That they’re positively in need of sex, any form of sex, for the duration. It doesn’t feel like that. While he’s certain the pain and emptiness would recede if he could be fucked, there’s no burning desire in his groins, there’s no hardness to his cock. Maybe pleasuring himself last night took the bite out of it before it could grow, or possibly Derek’s mere presence is enough to keep him from going mad with lust. His simple touch, his easy caregiving. It’s nothing Stiles has ever heard of in an alpha and omega relationship. Even the rare marriages between them actually born of love instead of tradition, he’s never heard of alphas being anything more than a hard cock to stuff their omega with during heat. 

Derek’s scent is only calm, only comfort. There are no undertones of desire, or arousal. Certain that rumor was correct, Stiles dares to place his fingers around Derek’s wrist when he lifts the cloth again to swipe his cheeks of a new round of sweat. The captain’s eyes lock onto Stiles’s when he tugs, “please,” it’s choked and needy. Something he knew he’d eventually feel, the ever needy omega. Though it’s clear in Derek’s response, that Stiles is not asking for a fuck. 

His hand is slow, his movement certain when he drops the rag into the basin. When he slips out of his boots and drops his belt and weapons to the floor. He leaves his clothes on, settles behind Stiles on the bed. Stiles can hear his mouth open, he’s certain it’s to ask permission, but Stiles doesn’t give him the time, only grabs hold of his wrist once again to wrap his arm over his chest. Drawing him near, bringing the scent of him wafting through every lobe of Stiles’s brain, washing him away in a sea of comfort. 

A ridiculous hum seeps out of his mouth, Derek’s rumble in response makes a flush creep up his body from toe to top of his head. A deep breath halts mid-breast, right beneath where Derek’s arm is pressed against his bones, bones that he knows are too close to the surface. The strong arm beneath his head bends at the elbow, fingers so gently swiping tears away from the gathering of in the corners of his eyes. Stiles closes them at the contact, allows the blackness in his eyelids to sway with images of comfort. Home. Before his mother’s death. The village. The familiar sights and sounds of it all. And here. Right here. In the arms of an alpha who refuses to take advantage or seek dominance. 

Stiles allows himself to relax. To feel every part of his body, from the tips of his fingers. Following in his mind the blood flow, the tendons, bones, muscle and sinew leading to his arms, shoulders. In the quiet blankness of his eyelids, his body is bare of scars. His body is free of marks. His body is waiting for the right alpha. He is a clean, blank canvas to be treasured. 

A shudder passes through his core when the warm, damp heat of Derek’s soft exhale dances along his spine. The instinct to bare his neck is too much to control. His eyes close tight when Derek shifts his weight. Expecting the worst now that he’s done it. Now that he’s put himself on a plate. Instead, he’s met with soft lips through the coarseness of his beard. Lips that stay along the base of his head, and a hand that rises only to fall against his throat gently. For just a moment, just a breath, an acknowledgment of his instinctual offering. A tender rejection with every promise of a future worth waiting for. 

Stiles hears his own breath quiver as Derek’s fingers flit over his bare skin. Ghosts of touches, shadows over scars, butterfly wings over bite marks. 

The captain’s voice is muffled with sleep, the effect an omega should have on an alpha after intimacy, and his whisper raises goosebumps on Stiles’s overheated flesh, “you’re safe,” it’s quiet but firm. And Stiles allows himself to believe it.

———————

The next time he wakes, it’s with a mind clear of heat. With a body exhausted by days of nothingness. Hunger in his belly, mouth dry even though Derek had tried his best, had pressed sustenance to his lips and waited patiently for Stiles to accept. He jolts upright when the realization that he’s alone in the bedding sinks in. His body protesting at the sudden movement, forcing himself to throw his legs over the edge anyway, feet on the cool boards beneath. He’s stripped himself of all garments aside form a soaked pair of under-britches. His consciousness begins to rush images and thoughts, information, knowledge, rumor at him at a speed too quick to process. Desperation in his movements, in his voice, energy zapping through his body quicker than his muscles can keep up with. 

“Captain,” he hears himself call out. Feels Derek in the chambers with him. His eyes too blurry to focus, sensory overload with all the same images that have been surrounding him for the days he’s been in here and in heat with an alpha who refused to tarnish him. Refused to claim him. Refused to take his rightful object, “Captain,” he calls again even though he can hear Derek moving across the floorboards. He can hear his boots and he forces down bile and stomach acid at the sound, wriggling his wrists and ankles to remind himself he’s not shackled as his body becomes all too familiar with the rocking of a ship on waves. He forces himself to his feet, sways, eyes darting around the room and finding what he’s looking for. He can hear Derek’s voice, but cannot make out the words over the rushing in his head, he stumbles, feels Derek’s strong hand near his arm. The air of it, the wind of the motion as he jerks away from the presence. Darting forward on uncertain feet for the Captain’s belt, lying on the table with his weapons. 

His hand closes around it quickly, fingers deft as his legs give at the knees and he stays on the floor where he belongs, holding the belt out in offering to his alpha’s waiting hands. He bows his head, tripping over breath and words as he asserts, “you must Captain,” his hand jerking forward, toward the captain who is now standing at his front. He can feel his presence there, the heat of him, if he could focus he’d be able to find the scent of calm and comfort rising off him instead of anger. But there’s too much. His own scents and his own denial and rejection making him desperate. Desperate not for a claim, but a punishment, “you must. Your own crew already, they’ve already, they,” his words keep twisting off, catching in his chest, tripping over his tongue, “they know you are physically unable to breed, but you must, you must have their respect. You must make them think it’s me. It’s my fault you could not claim a weak, cock hungry omega. They must think it’s me. They must think it was me who was unable to consummate, they must,” his hands tremble, the belt spread across his upturned palms, raised towards the captain who has remained still and silent, “you must,” his voice chokes off, tears spilling over, eyes trained on the boots in front of him.

Big, warm, calloused hands fall on top of his. He takes a deep breath, knowing Derek will do the right thing. He will take the belt now. He will lead Stiles out to the deck and he will leave welts on his back, his rear and his thighs. He will leave his dissatisfaction right there on Stiles’s body for all his crew to see. So they know, when neither of them smell like sex after a heat, when neither of them smell fertile, mated, or bonded; they will know it was Stiles’s fault. Not their captain’s. 

He blinks, his eyes unable to stay on the floor when Derek’s hands instead close overtop Stiles’s. The leather of the belt remaining between their palms. Through the film of tears he watches beyond the dancing dust motes in the fading afternoon sun glinting off the surface of the Sea and sparkling through the windows to light up every hue of the man who is lowering himself to kneel. Kneeling down on the floor. Right in front of Stiles. His eyes are drawn to the captain’s, to the way they look almost colorless in the broad light of day. To the softness there when his gaze is locked onto Stiles’s. 

Without moving, he feels the belt being taken from his hands. He hears it hit the floor behind Derek. The sound of it clattering to the wood, instead of being snapped against his flesh makes him cry out. A marionette with his stings cut, he crumbles forward, hands rising to hide his face quickly. Deep, aching sobs that he didn’t know himself capable of ring out. 

Derek’s hands are on his shoulder blades immediately, “may I?” it’s soft, coaxing. It’s so much more than Stiles deserves but he nods. Greedy for the tenderness that Derek is serving him, he takes it. He buries his face in Derek’s broad, muscled chest. He grips the fabric of the man’s blouse to his cheek, he gulps in heavy breaths of his scent. The scent that is now twinged with sadness but overwhelmingly comforting. Derek’s hands splayed on his back, holding him against his chest, keeping him upright. His chin hooks over Stiles’s shoulder, his head turned so his breath ghosts his neck. Body shuddering at the feel of him, at the feel of safety in his arms. 

“Why?” Stiles chokes barely above a whisper, “why are you being so kind?”

Derek leans out, a whine rips itself from Stiles’s chest at the loss of contact, he keeps one hand flat on Stiles’s back, his other takes a firm grip of his chin to aim his gaze as he speaks delicately, “no matter a person’s status in society, freedom of will needs to be respected,” his eye contact is firm, the golden light filtering through the chambers making them glow, “besides,” he shrugs, “rumors are just rumors. No need to believe every one you hear.”

“But, if your own crew deems you too weak to claim an omega in it’s weakest state, then what’s to stop them from mutinying?” Stile’s hands are still gripping the soft, worn fabric of Derek’s blouse, the feeling starting to return to them he releases just enough to spread his fingers over the man’s muscled chest. He notices the catch in his breath when a finger slips between buttons, contacting bare flesh beneath, the pad of his finger landing on the satiny tissue telltale of a scar.

“My crew is loyal to me because I am to them,” tilting his chin, waiting for Stiles to nod before he continues, “there was a time I’d value duty and service over loyalty. That time has come and gone. Loyalty, trust. Those are the only things in this world that count.”

Stiles feels his breath catch as his finger moves, sliding to the edge of a scar only to find another. Deeper, longer, “it’s true then? You were keelhauled?”

“Aye,” his eyes don’t leave Stiles’s. Even when Stiles feels his mouth drop open, finger moving only to find another scar. Derek’s hands move, leaving his back bereft of heat, taking open his buttons. Revealing a mural of scars crisscrossing his thick chest. Mingled with coarse chest hair, cutting into muscles that are hard and defined. Stiles’s fingers keep moving. Trailing over one scar just to find another. He wonders that it must be the man’s entire body that is marked in such a way. How was his face spared? 

“For seven days?” he hears himself whisper.

“Aye. Morn’ and night.”

“Twice a day for seven days?”

This time a half-nod is the silent response.

“Why?”

His eyes press closed, and Stiles wonders if he’s pushed too far. He has a habit of doing so. He knows this. But before he can open his mouth, or take his wandering hands back, Derek responds, slowly, “they promised they’d spare the crew in exchange for me.”

Stiles watches his eyes move beneath his lids. His Adam’s Apple bob with a harsh swallow. Salty liquid gathers at the base of his dark lashes, Stiles finds himself transfixed by the image, “but they didn’t, did they?”

Those eyes open, reflecting every color Stiles has ever seen in the Sea outside and the space inside this chamber, “no. Not all of them,” he clears his throat, quickly rises to his feet, offering his hands for Stiles to take. 

“I,” Stiles starts, knowing it’s an apology on the tip of his tongue, as Derek pulls him to standing, only to sweep him towards a chair.

“Drink,” he plops a nipperkin down on the table in front of him, “you need to hydrate,” moving away from the table quickly, tugging the door open to order, “supper to be delivered.”

“Aye Sir,” it sounds like Argent, but Stiles is too busy attacking the water and hardtack to look in the general direction. 

“Tell Erica and Peter to haul wind. We’ll make it to Beacon Harbor by tomorrow eve.”

“Aye sir.”

Stiles’s mouth falls open at that. It feels too soon, and not soon enough. They’ll set foot on dry land tomorrow eve if all goes as planned. They’ll be off the ship. He’ll be a landlubber once again after so long, too long. But when his eyes rise to meet Derek’s, when Derek nods assuredly towards him; his heart catches and it feels too sudden. Much too sudden. 

Without Derek staking his claim, Stiles’s future is uncertain at best. He’ll be sold to the madam of the nearest house of ill repute, or he’ll be taken to auction as a slave. He swallows the hardtack dry, scraping his throat, sudden loss of hunger as he watches Derek’s expression for a sign, any acknowledgment that this is the end or possibly just the beginning. Curses, he’s probably said too much about the rumors, he’s most likely pushed too far and made himself a place in an unwelcome corner of Derek’s mind and memory. Derek will be glad to rid himself of the nosy and impolite omega. 

A warm hand folds over his own, the captain’s presence suddenly at his back. His eyes close upon contact and he takes a deep breath of reassuring air, Derek admits slowly, “I plan to take you home again. It may take some time. But I promise you safe passage, and safe quarter in Beacon Harbor.”

Possibly he’ll regret it later, but he allows himself to believe it, “home,” he repeats on a sigh, barely above a whisper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost want to apologize for this being a slow burn in an a/b/o universe, but I think some healing is in need before they jump into it. We'll get there :)


	7. Your Word

Your Word

Home sits upon the horizon, the literal beacon at sea. But to Derek, it means something else entirely. It sinks like a stone in his gut, hands clenched at the rail as he watches it laid out in front of them. The features becoming clearer and clearer the nearer they sail. 

Closing his eyes when he's met with the strange shape of the shell of their old house. Remaining in the hills overlooking the town like a burned out reminder. 

He scents Stiles in the air long before he feels his presence beside him at the bow. His first time back on the deck this morn, he kept to Derek like a shadow but rarely spoke. Retired without prodding back to the quarters when the sun rose high over them, heat scorching his sensitive skin. The brush of the lad’s pinky against his own sends his heart into a frenzied thud that he stifles quickly, steeling himself before opening his eyes to allow his gaze to meet Stiles’s. Under the shade of his own captain’s hat, his eyes are still sparked with wonder, curiosity and something that Derek would possibly label as mischief though he hasn’t witnessed such behavior from him yet. 

He clears his throat when his breathing grows heavy, trailing his focus over the waves, tracking Deucalion’s rig where Boyd has captained it safely into harbor. The remainder of the Alpha Brotherhood will be rowed ashore, imprisoned while they await a fair trial and Derek will have raised anchor for the North by the time they dance with Jack Ketch. He intends to only stay long enough in Beacon Harbor to unload, give the crew a rest-over and opportunity to crack Jenny’s teacup before the Triskelion will set sail once more. 

There’s a cast of uncertainty to the way Stiles is standing, unsure of voicing the query on the tip of his tongue, awaiting an acknowledgment or permission to speak perhaps. Derek doesn’t give him one. He simply watches him as he chews his bottom lip, feels his pinky rise and fall beside his own to tap on the rail. His entire body seeming to squirm with the sheer intensity of holding back his questions. He breaks like a wave upon the reef, “what will you do with me? Upon shore? Shall I plan to sleep beneath the stars on the beach? Or will there be shelter available in the town? You said you’d take me home, I only ask about arrangements since you gave me your word,” a pink flush rises in his pale cheeks, averting his eyes.

Derek grasps his chin, steering his gaze to promise, “I shall find a place where you shall be clothed, fed, and sheltered.”

Releasing his grasp, Stiles nods. His face alight with more questions, this time biting them back.

Derek assures, “your friend Scott shall be sheltered as well. You need not worry yourself.”

His bottom lip gets tucked between his teeth and Derek wonders if the lad will share his chambers when they set sail once again. Possibly he’ll meet a mate ashore. And he’ll not require a voyage. A strange twist in his stomach makes him quell the thought, instead announcing, “we shall drop anchor in the harbor tonight, I will take the Triskelion down shore to heave down come morrow, we’ll weight anchor once again in three or four days time. In the meantime, I shall find a proper escort for you to explore the town,” he takes his leave with a bow, leaving the omega on the deck before he responds. 

It physically aches to walk away from the lad, a tug in his gut to stay by his side, to take him under his wing and protect him while land bound, to make certain to stake his claim. Taking a deep, steadying breath of the salty air of home, he reminds himself that claim is not one he’s worthy of. Nor is the boy ready for.

———————

Lydia raises one sculpted brow high on her forehead when her gaze meets the image of the lanky northern omega wearing the captain’s hat when Derek ushers him inside the house of ill repute. Most of the crew already there, eating and drinking heartily. Scott opted to stay aboard with the Argents for the night, making ready the kitchen and cleaning the forecastle. 

Stiles though, Derek needs find a safe place for him before he can ready himself to make his presence known at the estate. He jerks his head towards Lydia’s meeting room and a coy smile rises on her painted lips, “shall I ready a room for a turn?”

“Not necessary. I need a word with you,” he manages to grit out, taking hold of her elbow with one hand, motioning for Stiles to take a seat at the bar with the other. 

Lydia nods towards Braeden, “make the boy comfortable, it’s on the house.”

Derek huffs, producing a gold piece from his pocket and placing it in front of Stiles, “the boy needs sustenance, not be loaded to the gunwales.”

“Aye sir,” Braeden agrees, pouring a black jack of water, her eyes trailing over the lad’s face as she does so.

Immediately upon closure of her office door, Lydia raises her finger in the air between them, “you dare not ask me to house an unbonded omega who reeks of Hale whilst you are too much a bilge rat to bring him home to your own mother lest you break her poor heart over your folly.”

“What folly would that be Madam?”

She rolls her eyes, reaches out a quick hand to pinch his arm with a cruel line of a smirk on her lips, “I don’t believe you to be the dimwitted muscle your uncle Peter has made you out to be Derek Hale. Captain,” she corrects herself with a quirk of her lips, “you truly believe leaving him here, in the house of ill repute, to be a great scheme? Hmm? How long you fathom he be here before a strange alpha comes for a turn, takes him as a wench?”

A low growl rumbles in Derek’s chest before he can stifle it.

Lydia seats herself on her desk with a flip of her hair, “you truly believe you cannot take an omega home to your mother prebond? Or do you truly believe you are not bonded to the lad already?”

A flush creeps up Derek’s neck, growling low at her, “scupper that! You have a room for him? Aye or nay?”

“Not the type of room you’re expecting Captain,” she winks at him, trailing her scarlet painted nails across her oak desk, “I believe I could pillage a fortune from the men that would line up around this place to get a crack of Northern skinned, unbonded _male_ omega with eyes like that.”

Before Derek can contain himself, he’s taken a step forward, his hand rising to grab at her throat. Her sharp toed boot connects with his gonads and downs him in the middle of the floor. Her fingernails digging into his scalp as she tangles her grip into his braid, “ugh, clean yourself up before you call on your mother, and get your head on straight alpha,” tugging his head back to meet her gaze, “now, gather your wits while I gather you a bath, some long clothes, and your omega. I’ll send word to your mother that you shall be bringing company with you for supper this evening,” with a snap of her hand, her hair is flung over her shoulder and she’s gone. 

The door opens once more nearly immediately upon closing, when Derek cranes his head to peer at the presence, it is Danny who announces, “your room is prepared sir. Come along.”

Muttering curses under his breath even as he sinks into the warm, clean water in the basin with a groan. Blimey, it’s been too long since he’s had a proper bath. Barely soaked to his shoulders when the door swings open once again, Lydia prancing in with hair clipping blades and a comb, he takes a deep breath and submerges his head. Perhaps he can hold his breath long enough that she’ll be gone when he breaks the surface. Leaving him with his hair and his dignity in tact. 

No such luck. He watches through open eyes as the water blurred vision of her props a hand on her hip once the tray of supplies has been set up at his side. He blows bubbles in defeat and raises to face his fate. Mumbling, “not too short.”

“Why of course Captain, we would’t want anyone to see those wicked scars beneath all that hair, would we?” she speaks with an air of innocence that he’s certain she’s never possessed. 

His only response is a growl. To which she tuts, and gets to work on trimming his beard. As she’s working, she fills him in on the goings on whilst he was sailing. In turn, he confirms or denies the rumors that have already been loosed from the lips of his crew in the short time they’ve been seeking merriment. Her well practiced fingers are demanding upon tearing out the tangles of his braid, combing through it until all rat’s nests are dislodged, then making quick work of ordering him to dry and dress before she waltzes out the door, murmuring something about alphas and their inability to care for themselves. 

Barely beyond pulling his under-britches on, and a loose blouse when the door sweeps open once again. This time stealing the breath from his very lungs, making his heart thud so hard against his ribs that he’s certain it’s broken free. Stiles slowly shuffles inside, closing the door quietly behind him. He’s clean, skin pink from scrubbing, face shaved clear of the small amounts of stubble he was wearing upon arrival. Hair freshly trimmed, long clothes fit for his slight frame, a frame that needs filling out. Hands clasped behind his back as he stares at the floor between them with a flush creeping into his cheeks. His coat burgundy, a deep, sultry red that pulls attention to his snow white skin and dark hair. A white silk blouse with a teal sash to match the Hale family colors, brown breeches and proper shoes. Lydia knew precisely what she was doing. 

Derek shakes his head to himself, clears his throat and offers, “the clothing suits you.”

Stiles ducks his head in a slight bow, refusing to raise his eyes. 

Derek gathers his wits, decides against providing permission to the lad, and sets about clothing himself as casually as possible. Feeling Stiles’s eyes on him nearly immediately, listening as he breathes, projecting as much calm as possible when he announces, “my mother will expect us for supper. It’s possible she may expect,” swallowing down his discomfort at the offer, wishing the lad know that he has every right to deny, “you to bed with me. Though you…”

“Yes,” he blurts it before Derek can finish his sentence and Derek feels a smile tug at his lips. Hearing Stiles scuff his toe along the floor, swallow thickly and backpedal, “I mean, you can, just go ahead and um, finish that sentence Captain.”

Derek stifles an amused laugh, keeping his eyes trained on his buttons, “no need. Long as I have your agreement on the arrangement should it come up in conversation. Quite possible she’ll have a separate room made up for you.”

“Agreeing to the previous arrangement, then, Captain.”

“Stop calling me Captain.”

“Um, okay. Derek.”

Want blooms hot in Derek’s chest for just a moment before it is doused, focusing instead on gathering his breeches and tugging them up his legs. Listening as Stiles is silent, or nearly silent, the lad is constant in his movements. Fingers tapping, restless and searching for a task. The task he finds when Derek tugs his coat on, is surprising, to say the least.

His approach is quick and silent, his fingers a warm wind against the back of Derek’s neck, fingernails gentle against his scalp as he begins to plait his damp hair. Derek stills himself, awaiting the omega’s conversation with his eyes closed. Aside from Lydia, no one has approached him with the task of personal care in such a long time it’s easy to forget how intimate it is. He’s soft, but quick, pulling the braid tight enough to last, but not so rough and rushed as Lydia is. He anchors the tail of it, then reaches over Derek’s shoulder for the teal and pale yellow ribbon to tie the end. 

“Cora’s ribbon,” he hears himself admit, barely a whisper.

A tender hum of understanding rolls out of the lad’s chest, his hand flattening against Derek’s shoulder for a brief moment, pressing support against him. All too soon, his presence is gone, the heat of him receding from Derek’s back. 

Derek busies himself with fastening his boots while the lad backs away. Taking deep breaths of the scents of objects around him in order to override the sweet scent of the omega who’s distance is far too much for the alpha inside of Derek. 

Stiles’s bumbo colored eyes land on Derek’s when he turns, they’re soft and wide. An openness there that Derek has not seen before. He is much like floating upon a calm sea at night. Relaxing and breathtaking with a promise of danger on the horizon, the type of danger Derek is ready to embrace. 

He motions towards the door, “estate ho,” then watches the way the lad’s breeches cup his ass when he turns to lead the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously Lydia wouldn't actually take advantage of someone in Stiles's condition, she's just making the threat as a means to an end :)


	8. A Utopia Of Sorts

A Utopia Of Sorts

Stiles can feel his eyes widen as he scans over the chamber belonging to Captain Derek Hale, alpha and privateer. 

Derek sighs, loosening his sash, shrugging out of his coat and tossing both atop the bed. They’ve supped, Stiles has met the Hale family. And they are everything he imagined and more. Talia emits so much power and authority, Laura is the same way. When she smirked upon their entrance to the estate, sniffed the air between her brother and Stiles, her mouth parted but before she could form words, Derek growled at her. Growled! At his sister! And she laughed! Then clapped a tight hug around his frame, burying her face in the side of his neck and breathing him in. The most relaxed Stiles has seen the man’s body yet was in her embrace. 

Supper was like nothing Stiles would have expected, the whole thing has been. He thought with such fame and such a deep history that there would be more formality, with the way he and Derek were dressed for the affair, he was expecting a feast served by slaves. He was fully intending on sitting indignantly through what was painted in his mind to be the picture fitting of a prestigious family. Instead, it was intimate. Just the four of them. Derek’s father departed this morn to the hills to take care of some business, nothing to worry about, according to Talia, just some typical relations with the farmers. Laura, the alpha heir and most likely to be in the political game in Beacon Harbor for years to come, served the supper that she cooked! It was nothing more than a typical meal that Stiles remembers from his own childhood, whether with his own mother or with Melissa and Scott at their scuffed wooden table. 

He’s spent the bulk of the eve with his mouth agape and his eyes wide as saucers, letting the visible information filter into his mind to file it away with the tales he’s heard tell of the Hale family. They don’t match up. It’s curious, and now Stiles is curious. Of so many things, too many things.

When Derek’s eyes land on him, he feels it before he sees it, the contact shocking him into looking up, across the worn wooden boards of the chambers, a small handwoven throw rug in the center. The bed is no more luxurious than in his quarters upon the Triskelion. Stiles thought it’d be feathers and silk. He thought there’d be riches spread upon every surface, adorning every wall, apparent in every hallway, wound into every feature of the mansion perched in the center of the bustling city he has always imagined Beacon Harbor to be. Arr, was he mistaken! 

“Well?” Derek wonders, his gloriously thick and dark eyebrows perking up his forehead.

“Well?” Stiles repeats, tucking his hands together behind his back, standing awkwardly at the door only to bounce on the balls of his feet. The shoes may seem nice, and he’s grateful to Lydia for providing them, but he’s been so used to walking shoeless that they’re actually quite uncomfortable, “what?”

“You appear as though you have an endless amount of thoughts in your head, though you’ve been awfully quiet this entire evening.”

“Yes,” he agrees, one hand darting out to tug at his collar, a drop of sweat trickles down his back and he squirms at Derek’s full attention still being on him. He’s certain he is supposed to await permission to speak. Those words to be clearly given by his alpha. His alpha? The alpha who refused to claim him. But refused to let him out of his sight. And even growled at the only other alpha who has dared come close. It is true, this stare-off will not do. He scoffs, toes out of his shoes, and the dam breaks, “I thought this would be different. I thought your family would be different. I thought this was going to be like a palace, and your mother a queen. The stories that I’ve grown up on. It all,” his hand flails about the room, barren of really anything beyond necessities, then flops to his chest to unbutton the top few buttons of his blouse. Finally, he can breathe, “and I don’t understand what it is that’s happening here,” his fingers flit from his chest out towards Derek’s entire self and he takes off on a pacing route around the room as he pulls his coat down. 

Stiles finds himself stopping just long enough at the shelves to run a finger over the spine of each and every book, his mouth still moving with questions coming too quickly for anyone else to process, or possibly even himself, “if the stories be believed, then Beacon Harbor is one of the richest places on Earth. A city welcoming to all. You give quarter to Queen’s Navy, privateers, and pirates alike. To navigators and explorers. To beggars and vagabonds. A utopia of sorts where no one is alike but no one is all that different. Where an omega woman rules with fairness and equality. But if that’s true, if this is the richest place on Earth, then where is it all?” he sweeps his hand out to encompass the entire room.

Derek snorts, stopping Stiles in his tracks, dragging his focus to land on the man’s face again. His eyes are twinkling where he’s taken a seat on the edge of the bed. One boot off, the other unlaced, paused there. His broad shoulders barely covered by the silk blouse that is partially unbuttoned. A flush creeps up Stiles’s face, and heat rolls in his belly. Heart thudding hard in his chest, he utters, “it’s hot in here.”

Derek’s eyes only twinkle brighter and a smile toys at his lips before he looks away, busying himself with his boots to explain, “Beacon Harbor is a network. No one person is rich. And the riches you speak of, they are the richness of community. Of everyone sharing a place in society. No one worthy of any wrung on any ladder. We all stand on equal ground.”

“But,” Stiles’s mouth falls open, “how?”

Derek shrugs, “every citizen on this island is just as valuable as the one next to them. Wealth is in friendship, trust, and partnerships.”

“I don’t understand,” all the breath seems to seep out of his lungs in one burst and he sinks down to the bed beside Derek. Not close enough to touch.

“You will,” Derek assures him, “should you desire to stay an extra day or more, I shall take you around the city. Should you be interested, you will have access to every building and every person. To make your queries and such,” freeing his foot of his boot, he stands, bringing his clothing to the wardrobe. Much like his wardrobe on the ship, it is nothing elegant, nothing flashy. Two sets of long clothes that are brilliant for a man of his stature, but barely worn. Most of his garb simple and well worn, nothing more than would be seen upon the back of a simple peddler. 

Before Stiles can open his mouth to admit once more that he still doesn’t understand, he darts to his feet instead. To busy himself with hanging Derek’s clothes. As soon as his hand is in Derek’s peripheral, he swats it away, “no need,” dismissing the help.

Stiles clenches his jaw, “it’s my place.”

“There’s no need,” Derek responds, assuringly. Making quick work of placing the clothing, nice and neatly, into the wardrobe.

“I,” Stiles opens his mouth, then stops talking as soon as the captain’s eyes are upon his. His breath betraying him, leaving his body in a gust and disappearing completely as though he’s fallen off the plank into the deep blue-green translucence of the Sea. 

Soon, the man’s hands are working at putting Stiles’s coat alongside his own, their scents left to mingle inside the closet, twist and tangle with one another inextricably on their respective clothing. Or, the clothing that Stiles is borrowing from the madam. He’s uncertain of how long his loan will last, and what he need to repay her with. Possibly he should have queried this. 

“There will be no repayment due,” Derek allows, as though he’s read his mind. 

Stiles feels his mouth fall open, his eyes bug, then narrow.

“Regarding your concerns spoke aloud,” Derek tells him with confusion upon his brow.

“Aye. Of course. Yes, I did. Captain Hale, I did speak aloud,” his fingers rise to tap on his lower lip as he watches Derek shake his head in some semblance of amusement and turn towards the bed.

Stiles makes his eyes stay away from the man’s form as he undresses, or at the very least, he pretends to keep his gaze away. Watching from the corner of his eye as Derek’s clothing is slowly removed, his dark tanned skin, strong muscles becoming more and more revealed with every layer gone. His heart stutters in his chest when the scars scattered along his back become visible. And his idiotic omega nature drives him to move forward, kneel on the bed behind the alpha, helping him remove the final layer of his underclothes. The yellow hues of the candlelight in this room dancing warm golds and yellows across his marred skin. Stiles doesn’t know what possesses him so, but he leans forward until his lips are hovering over warm flesh, a deep breath through his nose stirring butterflies in his chest, his eyes flutter shut and before he can halt himself his lips are pressed against the swirling tattoo of the Hale family crest on Derek’s skin. Parts of it faded and undermined by scars. 

He hears Derek’s breath catch in his ribcage, and he leans his forehead against his spine. Breathing in the heavy scent of him, taking in the essence of his strength and allowing it to mingle in his mind with the stories told, and the words that parted the captain’s lips himself. Stiles’s fingers trace up his sides, feeling each and every indentation. Lingering until the swirls of his fingertips are certain to be left behind on Derek’s mutilated skin. He hears himself whisper, “you’re beautiful,” before his lips begin pressing kisses over the marks on his shoulders. 

Derek’s body stiffened at the contact, his scent remaining calm and welcoming to the explorations. Stiles’s fingers trail along his ribs, making himself familiar with the patterns of his body. Counting each rib in his head until he’s taking in the extent of his chest, moving fingers around his body to press a palm to his heartbeat. Derek’s hand rises then, landing overtop of Stiles’s. It’s warm, soft pressure and he’s working his lips along the curve of Derek’s shoulder when he turns his head.

Stiles rises from the heat of his body, allowing himself a long look at the man’s eyes, searching for permission to keep investigating his surface. To keep taking him in, mapping him out. His eyes linger on Stiles’s, sparked with the glow of the candle’s flames, a soft dancing light that Stiles could spend hours gazing upon. When they flicker to Stiles’s lips, it seems as though all the rigging holding him back is snapped, and he dives in. Meeting the man’s lips with a searing determination of intimacy. Derek’s body twists, allowing them more contact points, his hands rising to hold Stiles’s jaw, one of them slipping through his hair and anchoring his head. Heat and flames scorch him from the outside in, as Derek’s gentle lips part, allowing him the access he seeks. 

Of all the things that’ve been done to him. Stiles has never willingly kissed a person. He’s bit the lips that have tried, he’s spit at the face that came too near. Most of them never attempted, they only wanted him for his body, for the wet hole to fill with their cocks. But never, never has he kissed.

A whimper escapes him when Derek’s tongue traces his bottom lip. The coarseness of his beard a sharp contrast to the softness of his lips and the heat of his tongue. Derek draws back only to be chased by Stiles. Unwilling to give him up, unwilling to let him hide behind his teeth. He sweeps along the captain’s upper teeth, feeling the ridges and imperfect tilt to them. Derek’s lower lip flattening against his own, soft, plush, more incredible than any part of his imagination had conjured. 

His tongue meets Stiles’s just as his fingers trace along his jaw, cupping behind his ear ever so gently and he pulls back. Eyes glittering, alight with lust and pleasure. It steals the breath from Stiles’s body and he feels the part of the swooning omega, but when Derek only lingers there, a breath away from him, allowing them both to calm and their minds to clear. There’s question in his eyes, and comfort in his touch still lingering on Stiles’s goose-bumped flesh. 

Stiles takes a deep breath, it does nothing to clear the fog that has encased his mind, the tingles that have taken over his body. His eyes drop to Derek’s mouth, his kiss pinked lips beyond the dark black of his beard. The soft openness to the curve of his smile. 

He’s certain that something smart, like, “shiver me timbers, I’ve run a shot across the bow,” passes his lips, as he closes the distance between them and holds back none of the passion and lust this time. Diving forward until their teeth clack together painfully and Derek chuckles, taking the time to gently tilt Stile’s head, gaining an angle he’d never thought of before, to deepen the kiss, to open himself to explorations of the most intimate sort. He’s left with nothing to do but hang there, fingers gripping Derek’s shoulders, mouth open for the pillaging and trust thrumming towards the alpha who’s grip is sure and tender. He meets every one of Derek’s swipes with one of his own, but he’s given up the lead to the man who clearly knows this jig better than Stiles does. He deepens and then steers them ashore, leaving lingering kisses on his lips only. His breath warm and moist, rising shivers along Stiles’s spine. And he doesn’t draw back until every part of Stiles is alive with shocks of heat. 

The wave has crested the bow and seeped into the core of Stiles’s body as Derek gently guides them both down into the bedding. Wrapping himself around Stiles in a way that keeps him close to his chest but their pelvises away from one another. 

He lifts himself with his elbows to lean over Derek’s face, watching his eyes roll beneath his lids before he feels Stiles’s gaze and they open. His hand tracking through Stiles’s hair, landing at the nape of his neck and staying there. Content. Content is the only thing he can scent on the alpha. 

And content is all he can decipher from his own emotions. The tangled fear of what has been done to him dampened just enough now. In a vulnerable state with a man who could easily take advantage. He fights the primal urge to bare his neck. He’s already done that, he reminds himself, and been rejected. Instead he leans down again, brushing his lips just slightly over Derek’s before he allows himself to relax fully, going boneless against his chest, into the bedding, and unable to fight the fuzz of sleep that is blanketing the noise of everything else in his head. Safety against his chest, beneath him a man whom Stiles is certain will never force his will, never cause him harm. A man he can sleep easy with. A man he can share his thoughts and his ideas. A man he can seek comfort in, one who’s strength is abundant enough for Stiles to borrow what he may need.

He feels Derek’s hand soften further against his neck, growing heavy with invading sleep and a low rumble echoing in his chest against Stiles’s ear. He responds in kind with a light sigh parting his lips, his fingers notched into a dip in Derek’s flesh, right over his steadily beating heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might (fingers crossed) be at the point where double chapters on Saturdays will be the norm :) Thanks friends!


	9. Not As Expected

Not As Expected

Derek spent the morn in meetings with Boyd, then with his mother. The Alpha Brotherhood has been chained and locked in cells in the Fort, they will await fair trial. Boyd has taken Deucalion’s rig to the Harbormaster for dismantling. They will use the bulk of the materials in new ships but the Demon Wolf herself will never sail again. 

And Stiles, well, he apparently spent the morn with Laura. And has a lot of opinions about it. She’s walked him through many of the town’s laws, and customs. She’s filled his head with lore, rumor, and likely truths. 

Since Derek promised to take him around the city, this is what they are currently doing. Stiles babbling away beside him, only giving Derek the chance to speak when they arrive at a new community feature that he has queries about. Derek has fallen into a type of rhythm, finding soothing in the lad’s voice. In his endless chatter. Many of his observations are wise beyond his years, the brightness in his mind rather apparent. He seems to have quickly understood the way Beacon Harbor has become a successful independent community. He told Derek that in his mind he has mapped it all out with threads, and he wants to follow every thread to see how his vision of the town falls in line with the actual town. 

He’s a strange fellow, and certainly an interesting one. 

Derek stops from time to time to chat with townsfolk that he’s either grown up with, or gotten familiar with through his time on the Sea. Whether it be fellow privateers, pirates, or the freed folk who had been bound to the New World as slaves. Talia has never been one to stand by and allow others to be enslaved. Derek was quick to leave the Queen’s Navy after his contract time was served. He signed the Letter of Marque without hesitation though he’s never held resentment towards pirates, nor the Navy. It’s the balance of the Sea. And Derek certainly doesn’t mind being a cog in the wheel, one that helps keep that balance. 

Stiles grabs hold of Derek’s blouse sleeve when they near the market. His scent spikes with anxiety, his eyes wide with excitement, he sways nervously on his feet, and licks his lips a few times before his gaze lands on Derek’s. He’s uncertain how to read his reaction. So he remains silent and waits. Entirely too much time passes in silence before Stiles takes a deep breath and admits, quietly, with pink cheeks, “I want to go,” motioning towards the market, “it’s just,” his hand twists off Derek’s sleeve, falls into his fingers, squeezing tight before letting go, “it was at the market. When,” one shoulder rises to shrug, rocking on his feet, hand rising to the back of his neck. The contact of his eyes knocks the wind out of Derek’s chest and he deflates upon announcement, “we were taken at the market. By the Alpha Brotherhood.”

Derek reaches for his hand, taking it until he hears Stiles draw a breath, and feels some of the anxiety ebb, “perhaps another day then?”

There are shiny tears glinting at the corners of his eyes when they drop to Derek’s chest, “aye. Perhaps.”

The scent of fresh baked bread, sickeningly sweet treats, and herbs for every ailment known waft through the street. Stiles can’t hide the grumble in his stomach. How daft Derek has been to allow him to get hungry, “come along,” squeezing his hand lightly, “we shall visit Mason’s bakery on the way back to the estate.”

His eyes light up at the offer, a polite nod. Derek has found that he very intensely dislikes when the lad uses his manners, so he jolts him with an elbow to the side and wonders, “shall we dine on sweets and ruin our appetites for supper?”

A smile threatens the corners of his luscious lips, a spark of mischief flickers across his irises, “I believe we shall, Captain.”

——————

“Your father,” Stiles starts, unties his scarf, and lets his eyes settle on Derek’s, “is not what I expected.”

“No?”

“No,” his focus drifts around Derek’s chambers again, as though he’s expecting riches to magically appear and paint the masterpiece of high society that he was imagining. They linger for a long moment on the books, well worn spines, dog-eared pages, Derek has taken notes in the margins of some. 

Unbuttoning the buttons on his blouse, Derek’s borrowed blouse that’s too loose. Even if the lad was at his full weight, he’d still be narrower than Derek, but for now it is safest for him to be draped in alpha scent. He tosses the blouse towards the desk in the corner, then clears his throat and scuttles over to arrange it properly in the wardrobe.

“Unnecessary,” Derek mumbles, returning his focus to the book in his hand. 

“You are a tidy fellow, it would be disrespectful of me to just leave your things strewn about as I would my own.”

“It’s no mind of mine,” Derek assures him, flipping a page though he didn’t actually read it yet. 

Stiles grunts out a half-laugh, “I barely know you Derek, and even I know that if I left things lying around all haphazardly in your quarters, you’d not sleep until they were righted.”

“You believe so?”

“I know so,” he responds with a smirk, eyes dancing with amusement as he slips his socks off and tosses them in the air above his head. Letting them land wherever they land, “woe is me, I seem to have dropped something,” the smirk is bleeding dangerously into full-fledged grin and it sets Derek’s chest alive with butterfly’s wings. Stiles steps halfway out of his breeches, the pair still acquired from Isaac. 

Bare chested, nothing more than under-britches on, his pale flesh pulled taut over bones. It won’t do, to have him so thin, perhaps they should stay on the island for a few days longer to allow family cooking to soften some of his edges before they set sail for his homeland. 

One leg freed, the other still partially entwined with fabric, he attempts to kick off the breeches. Only to have them remain stuck on his ankle as he kicks again, no doubt trying to fling them across the room, but his luck is against him and he trips, landing flat in the middle of the bed with a huff of amusement. 

Derek’s chuckle rises notes of pride in Stiles’s scent as he clambers up the bed to tuck himself into Derek’s side with a heavy sigh, “read to me, oh alpha, whilst we both forget my clumsiness,” still kicking at the offending breeches until they come loose from his ankle and dribble off the edge of the bed. Derek will have to wait until the omega is sound asleep before he rises to tidy up. 

——————

“I told you so,” he mumbles sleepily, face half turned into the pillows, as Derek folds the clothing and puts it away.

Derek doesn’t stifle the smile of amusement when he tucks himself back into the blankets, the smell of salty Sea entering the open windows entangling with the sweet sleep scent of Stiles beside him. The combination is intoxicating, taking a moment to let himself enjoy it, let it fill his mind with idyllic images of a future, one he knows he’ll never have. 

——————

With the Triskelion heaved down, the day is spent scrubbing her clean of barnacles. Derek can barely move without elbowing Stiles as he scrubs right next to him. Mumbled apologies every time they make contact, flushed cheeks, and fleeting eye contact make the work quick to pass. Derek grew up witnessing his parents working side by side, neither of them too proud to roll up their sleeves and get dirty. Neither of them ashamed to be doing a task more typical of the other’s expected duties. 

It is post supper as they walk side by side down the hall to Derek’s chambers, when his father calls him to the office for a word. Closing the door behind him, knowing that by now Stiles is sitting on the edge of the bed chewing on a fingernail, he smiles to himself briefly before wiping it off to focus on his father’s knitted brows. 

“I’m not certain you understand, or possibly, realize what you’re doing Derek.”

“Doing about?”

Father motions towards the general direction of Derek’s quarters, “sheltering a wounded omega is one thing. Providing companionship is a different thing.”

Derek sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, prodding at his chin through his beard, wondering how exactly to explain this to his father. His father is no traditionalist by any means, but his love story with Mother was simple, straight forward, and strong enough to have transcended society’s constraints regardless of existing bias. 

“I worry,” Father admits, sinking into his desk chair, rubbing at his eyes, “you’re a strong boy, but with one broken bond already, it’s,” his voice trails off, eyes meeting Derek’s with compassion in their depths, “I worry, is all.”

“I understand,” Derek shrugs, taking the seat opposite his father, accepting the offered finger of rum when he pours it, “I can assure you that I will not bond with this lad. He is simply a guest, and three days time we will sail for his homeland, as I promised.”

Father’s gaze falls across Derek’s face, searching for any signs of misinformation, a slow nod as he leans back in his chair, his appraisal not over yet, “when I met your mother I told myself I would not bond with her. Too bold, too intelligent and opinionated, and of course the rather obvious reason we'd not make proper mates,” a soft smile lifts the corners of his lips, “it was the biggest lie I ever told myself,” he chuckles, downing his rum in one swallow and rising to his feet. Derek listens to his boots clack across the floor, his hand warm on Derek’s shoulder where he squeezes, “oft times, the freewill to bond is not so much a conscious decision,” he taps Derek’s shoulder, “good night son.”

Preposterous that Derek would bond again. He doesn’t know Stiles well, not nearly well enough to bond, but he knows this already: Stiles deserves better than Derek. 

Swirling the last of the rum in his glass, watching the way it catches and throws the glowing light in the room, he’s certain it will be hard to bid the lad farewell, but he’ll be better off. Back at home with his father, in his village. He needn’t be overwhelmed by the violence of the Sea, nor the bustle and politics of Beacon Harbor. Derek need only to strengthen him, make certain he is well before he returns him home. That is all. He reminds himself that is all when he opens the door to his chambers and is overwhelmed with the scent of the lad, with the softness in his eyes, with the smile on his lips. He reminds himself that is all when he falls asleep with his head on Derek’s chest, as Derek’s breath moves his hair whilst he reads to him softly. He reminds himself that is all as he feels the lad’s body curl around his own in the nighttime and a soft warmth spread through his chest at the contact.


	10. All Things Precious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Suicidal thoughts and actions. There's also some discussions of torture and violence. So go ahead and skip this chapter (or just the last section) if that's something that doesn't sit well with you.
> 
> I promise this is the lowest point for Stiles.

All Things Precious

The gallows are set up in the town square, though the alphas have not yet been tried. Stiles assumes it will not take long, and if Laura’s assurances are to be taken seriously then they will all dance the hempen jig by as soon as Sunday. 

The Triskelion is scheduled to set sail once again come morrow. Stiles is uncertain of his feelings towards this. He’s come to trust and seek comfort in Derek. But the alpha has made it abundantly clear he is uninterested in bonding with Stiles so there is no point in staying here in Beacon Harbor. Stiles could grow to enjoy it. It is a beautiful town nestled along a sandy beach where the green blue waters of the Sea lazily crest a coral reef that is visible from the hills surrounding the Harbor. Beyond the hills are plantations and farms. It seems as though Derek was correct, everyone plays their part in this community, everyone serves their purpose and they live in a perfect type of harmony. Stiles has even seen mixed marriages and unbonded couples with children. Imagine that! No one being judged for the choices they’ve made. It’s all too good to be true. Which is most likely why the Argents had taken it upon themselves to attempt a siege. Laura shared a few details of the story with him, all details he had already heard through rumor and tales told in village circles. 

The Argents took advantage of the one weak spot that Talia had. Trust. They used her trust and threw it in her face. Miraculously she’s remained the ever sure leader, one who invites all of her village to the governing table. It is important, that everyone have their say and their equal representation. And thus far Talia has provided that. She’s really a wonder. 

Stiles heard tell of her preying on alpha mates. Stealing their power to pad her own, devouring them after bonding with them, luring them in with the promise of riches only to steal their soul and slit their throats. He has seen no evidence of these rumors being truths, but he’s also afraid to ask. Possible that her current mate is only one of many, the father of her children, while she keeps the others in dungeons until she’s ready to feed. Admittedly, this is the work of a vivid imagination and years of fireside tales. Though it is possible and Stiles plans to find out before he boards the ship tomorrow. 

He’s been in the square for only a short time before Derek finds him, his scent cutting through the small crowd and infiltrating Stiles’s nostrils immediately, his chest filling with pride when his eyes catch the alpha’s directly and the captain smiles at him. He wills his heart to stay in his chest as he watches the man approach him. He is quite a sight, carrying himself with regality, kind and attentive towards every person who approaches him but not long to engage in conversation. He is a man of few words, this much is true, what he lacks in words he makes up for in respect. 

It feels like it takes ages for him to be by Stiles’s side. His smile soft, his eyes sparked with joy. It makes Stiles’s breath catch in his chest when Derek reaches up, removing his hat from Stiles’s head and replacing it with a new one. 

“I’m afraid it’s rather simple,” Derek explains, settling his captain’s hat back on his own head, “you ought to have something to keep the sun off,” he shrugs.

“Purpose is more important than adornments,” Stiles agrees, though he was getting used to the worn in feel of Derek’s hat on his head. This one feels stiff, and unbroken. 

Derek sighs, reaching up to take the hat off his head again, trading them and shrugging, “new hats are,” his voice trails off, ears turning slightly pink.

“No, no, tis not,” something in his expression must have proven him ungrateful for the gift, his hand rises to trace along the captain’s hat, the feel of it comforting, the scent of it still mostly Derek but partially Stiles as well, “I’ve just grown accustomed to this one, is all,” he shrugs, “feeling heat rising in his own cheeks, “it’s just a silly comfort,” removing the hat but Derek’s calloused hand stops him from returning it.

“Perhaps it is better to have my scent on you still,” he admits quietly, “I shall break this one in,” he turns with a shrug and an offered elbow for Stiles to grasp.

Sliding his fingers around Derek’s elbow seems a reflex for how simple it is. The sparks of yearning for more, for that bare skin against bare skin is not enough when it’s nothing more than a hand and an arm. His mind travels to all the other parts of Derek’s skin that he’d like to run his fingers over, he’d like to taste. That kiss has not yet been repeated, but longed for. It seems a thing Stiles shouldn’t initiate, but a thing he craves nonetheless. 

He tugs on Derek’s arm when he shakes his thought away from chasing tastes along his flesh, as Derek was leading them around the market and back to the estate, Stiles tells him, “I believe I should enjoy a walk through the market.”

Derek hesitates, his eyes searching Stiles’s features one by one, admitting, “I’ve already made the arrangements for our needs aboard the Triskelion. No need to visit the market.”

“I,” taking a deep breath, finding the scent of Derek in the air that’s mingled with Sea and odors of the city, “told you that I would like the full tour of Beacon Harbor, and what is a city without visiting it’s market? The full experience is what I want.”

There is apprehension in his nod, but the small agreement is enough for Stiles to start walking in long strides towards the bustling crowd before he can allow his fear and bad memories to override his natural curiosity and eagerness to learn and experience new things. HIs grip tight, sure on Derek’s arm, he stays close, and he’s certain he is not imagining the extra contact of Derek’s body against his at every opportunity, pulling him closer when the path gets narrow or the crowd swells. His head turning at even intervals to whisper to Stiles about this vendor or that product, soothing things that mean nothing but they mean everything to a mind that is stuck in a swirl of oncoming storm and the only way to stay ahead of the chaos is to find that anchoring voice, the one that is calm and supportive. 

With the safety of his alpha beside him, and underneath his fingertips, the sounds of the market filtering into a calm din instead of a crashing, overpowering wave as he breathes deep the aroma of food stuffs, herbs, and the crisp strong scent of Derek beside him, he finds himself reaching a near level calm. Something resembling a natural heartbeat, steady breathing rhythm, his eyes capable of processing his surroundings and narrowing his focus down to one display at a time. 

His attention skips easily across a table of jewels, lingering only on a pocket watch that reminds him of his father’s. He skims the table of daggers and even lets one finger trace the hilt of a particularly fetching one. Derek creates small talk with the sellers and compliments their wares as customary. Each of them offering their services, wanting to create custom pieces for a Hale. He politely turns them down for now, accepting future work as a possibility.

Stiles’s eyes grow wide and his mouth waters as he stands in front of the fruit display. So many things he’s only ever heard tell of , things that have never been grown in the North, things that smell sweet and intoxicating. Derek chuckles as he offers the seller a gold piece for anything the lad desires, in his own words. Stiles is certain he desires it all, but he must keep himself in check before he makes himself a fool and spends more than a gold piece. Uncertain of how much it would take, Derek nods with every point of his finger, silently urging him to keep going. He’ll have a table full of fruits by the time the gold is spent!

Derek pays a young lass to deliver the fruit to the estate, her eyes light up at the silver piece he offers and she nods enthusiastically at the chance to set foot inside the estate. He smiles broadly at her and Stiles’s weak omega mind wonders how he’d look with a child of his own. He shakes the thought, a part of him knowing he’s already been broken by the Alpha Brotherhood. If he was physically able, he’d already have been with child. 

At the touch of Derek’s fingers on his cheek he shakes his thoughts free, and makes certain to mind his manners to thank Derek thoroughly for the fruit. Before Derek can shake off his gratitude, Stiles leads him back into the throng of the crowd. Snaking his hand this time into Derek’s, gripping gently, allowing the sparks of heat and desire to crowd his chest along with his still beating heart. 

His focus shifts along the clothing, admiring the handiwork that’s pressed into every long coat on the rack. The woman seems familiar with Derek while they chat and she eyes up Stiles’s shoulders, making comments about his square frame and how a particular style he’s never heard of would make for stunning attire. Stiles doesn’t miss the appraisal in Derek’s expression as his gaze travels the expanse of Stiles’s chest and shoulders making him squirm under the scrutiny. Derek’s soft approval is reassuring, but Stiles’s desire to move on is too strong now to be argued with. He’s never been comfortable when he feels on display. 

The soft bread that Derek buys, still warm and fresh with cheese swirled and baked through it, is possibly the most amazing thing Stiles has eaten in quite some time. It’s possible he moans when it’s on his tongue, clearing his throat and swallowing down the blush. Derek’s only reaction is to smile softly and pass him another piece. 

He lingers at the apothecary, where a man Derek calls Dr. Deaton is discerning him with impeccable gaze that makes him shift on his feet. The man scents the air as his eyes linger on Stiles, then moves his gaze to Derek and wonders, “shall you be requiring any medicines aboard the Triskelion, Captain?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“And your omega?” the unspoken heat suppressants is clear in his expression.

Derek’s eyes skirt over the table and land on Stiles’s, waiting for his response as he offers, “the lad speaks freely for himself.”

His fingers tighten in Derek’s grip, heart pounding hard in his chest. Uncertain now. By the next time he experiences a heat he should be well embedded in his home village. Most likely to spend the days in his bedroom there, under Melissa’s roof as she runs cool water basins on a regular basis for him. Similar to how Derek cared for him aboard the ship, but so unlike the experience. Stiles stifles a whine that gets caught in his throat and the idea of experiencing a heat now without the soft but firm presence of the captain beside him. 

“Unnecessary,” Stiles finally squeaks. The doctor’s expression doesn’t change, but something about the way his eyes linger on Stiles that seems to call his insecurities to the surface. Fingers clamping down on Derek’s hand as he side steps further away from the apothecary. 

Derek politely excuses them from the doctor, falls in stride with Stiles as he rushes away from the bustling crowd. All his breath seems to have gotten stuck behind a sudden cotton ball that’s lodged in his chest, his head spinning and his stomach clenched in knots, all the bite marks along his neck and shoulders, the still visible marks from the shackles on his wrists seem to be shouting for attention. Certain that every single person who has walked past them in this crowd has seen as much, has seen Captain Hale with this poor excuse for a proper mate, certain he’s tarnished the man’s reputation. Just by being at his side, wearing his hat, holding his hand. Stiles jerks his hand out of Derek’s grip, yanks the hat off and sets it alongside where he plops down on a rock wall. He just needs a moment, just to gather himself. To remind himself of who he is, why he’s here, and what his presence is doing to Derek’s reputation. He never should have insisted upon the market. He never should have left the ship, he should have stayed onboard and not allowed himself to be seen by the villagers who are meant to respect the Hale family.

“Stiles,” his voice is barely audible through the thundering in Stiles’s head. Though blurry vision he can make out the outline of the man, kneeling near his feet, his hands resting atop his knees, palm up as though he’s waiting for Stiles to take them. Right here, in the open, in front of so many people. 

Stiles hears himself gasp, tears have sprung to his eyes.

“Breathe Stiles,” Derek’s voice is calm, commanding, and finding a way to seep through the clashing of noise and fuzz and panic in his pathetic omega mind, “breathe,” his hand shifts off Stiles’s knee, laces through his fingers and rises them both to his own chest, “breathe with me,” he urges softly with deep tones that command even his panic hazed mind to listen. 

As though he could be any more pathetic and disgusting, he snuffles, “I want to go home,” pulling his hand from Derek’s to wipe it across his snot and tear streaked face.

Derek simply nods, lifting the hat off the ledge beside him to set it back down on his head which Stiles would rip it back off if he had the energy, but it’s taking all he has to get to his feet and walk down the cobblestones instead of falling to the ground, gripping his knees to his chest and hiding. 

“We shall weigh anchor come sunrise,” Derek tells him with certainty as they walk.

——————

“You needn’t be so hard on yourself,” Derek tells him when he doesn’t bother removing his clothing before sinking into the bedding. Derek’s weight landing beside him, tucking the blankets around him though he’s warm and the air is warm and still, and he detests the heat here he’s decided. He wants to go home where there is snow and cold air that rises off glaciers and a soft pile of furs is the most exquisite thing on the Earth. 

Stiles would scoff at him, but his insides still feel like unfortunate mush, his body trembling, his mind circling the market and the wandering eyes. Derek’s hand lands softly on his shoulder, “should you require anything I am just down the hall.”

At the loss of his body weight and the warmth of his contact, Stiles bites back a sob or a whine or some combination of the two. Pinching his eyes closed tight to hide beneath the bedding. 

He’s no better off for sleep whilst alone, nothing more than his racing thoughts to keep him company. He can hear voices filtering in from down the hall, barely registering what they’re discussing until Laura’s voice outside the door clearly wonders, “who stressed the omega? He absolutely reeks.”

He doesn’t bother listening to any response that may be rendered. Instead pulling a pillow over his head to muffle it. He wonders if it’s possible to stifle himself with it, to hold it down long enough to suffocate his thoughts, the ones that keep circling like ravens on carrion. Back to the market that day, back to the hull of the Demon Wolf, back to the bilge, back to the pain and misery and bites, the pull of the ropes with every move he made, the twisting of chains against his flesh, burning it off him. His fingers trace along the lines of his wrists now, noting that there are certainly places that will never heal. Yet another reason to be relieved to head North. Long sleeves commonplace year round. 

His mind is mapping out all the places where the captain keeps his blades. The tears now dried. The racing thoughts slowing to a dull repeat, something darkened around the edges but still clear, something he must do. He must do it. He needs rid Derek Hale of his presence. Whether he waits until the man is asleep and takes his chance to slink down the hallway undetected. He can whore his way onto a ship, as many ships as it takes, to get himself home. Scott will be fine here with the Argent lass. He’ll be happier here. And Stiles won’t get in the way of that. Nor will he get in the way of Derek’s success, his future. 

The only other option is the blades. He could do it now. By the time they smell the blood it’ll be too late. 

His hands tremble as he moves the blanket down, peering over the hem at the door. It’s just barely open, just enough that he could easily be heard if he makes any noise. A deep breath reveals the scent of supper being cooked, it’s possible they’ll send someone for him, it’s possible Derek will come for him. He’ll have to make haste.

His feet are silent when they land on the floorboards. His heart hammering hard, body trembling. Any of the things he thought himself capable of before, those things will never be his. Not now. He’ll never be able to succeed, it was a slim chance before, but now with all the unbonded bites right there for all to see how many alphas have taken him, just how many have marked him. He’ll never have any status, this last week here in Beacon Harbor and the time aboard the Triskelion were like a dream that he didn’t deserve to have. 

His legs wobble when he rises, shuffling his feet without lifting them. He knows exactly where each blade is located. And knows the anatomy to get the job done, thanks to Melissa’s medical training. Even that, even a job fit for an omega, even that is something he’d be unable to do in his state. 

His breath catches when he slides the drawer open, slowly to limit any noise. The dagger is in his hand, and he’s ready. Certain of it. Laying the blade along his wrist, watching the last of the dying light of day reflect from the silver surface of it. The way it fits just right, alongside the scars from his chains, he can join them, form a T of sorts. A river that runs into a tributary. And let them both run until they run dry.

The very tip of the blade sinks into his skin, a red dot of blood bursts from his flesh and he breathes deep. A strange calm has overtaken him, a numbness he’s never felt before. When a sudden, excruciating and sharp pain overtakes his chest. Knocking the wind from his lungs as the door clatters open and he sinks to his knees on the floor. Derek’s growl is fierce, lunging across the room to take the blade from his shaking hand, tossing it aside and taking Stiles in his arms. His hand closes tight around the barely wounded wrist, drawing it to their chests, muttering a never ending string of rumbles deep in his chest that echo through Stiles’s entire body. His face is hidden in the crown of Stiles’s head, his breath stirring tingles on his scalp. He doesn’t speak, the vibrations emitting from his chest enough to soothe and draw Stiles’s mind to the present. Wrapped in his arms, his legs folded around Stiles’s; it’s possible he’s never felt so safe in his life. 

His breath catches, and a sob rips through him. Derek only holds him tighter, his rumbles a constant switch between angry at the situation, and calming towards Stiles. 

“You cannot,” Derek’s voice is biting, harsh with frustration, “allow them to claim victory by taking your own life,” his grip so tight that he shakes Stiles’s entire body with his words. 

“What life,” his own voice sounds distant to his ears, “is there now? What is there now?” he sobs, hard enough to cut off his words.

Derek’s hands rise at that, taking Stiles’s face in a demanding grip, steering him out of his hiding place, “look at me Stiles,” it's said with such deep demand that Stiles’s omega has no choice but to obey, “you have so much ahead of you. You have so much left to give. And so much left to be given. You will survive this. And you will not be alone. Ever,” he pledges, his eyes so lit with passion that Stiles cannot deny it. There is no lie in the statement, Derek truly believes it. 

Stiles twists his face out of the captain’s hands and tucks back into himself to shudder the rest of the tears away. He doesn’t believe him, he doesn’t believe Derek. It’s not that simple, but there’s something about the purity and honesty in his statement that makes Stiles think it’s possible. It’s possible that if someone like Derek can believe so wholeheartedly in the fact that Stiles has something worth living for, that maybe he can allow himself a sliver of that. Just a sliver of that belief. 

“I want to see them dance with Jack Ketch,” wiping the back of his hand across his cheek, “I want to see their feet tremble and shake with the rhythm of painful death. I want to see their faces turn tomato red and then purple. I want to see them piss themselves. And then I want to climb the gallows and piss on them. I want every one of them to suffer, I pray for no broken necks, no quick deaths. I want to see it, and I want to stand in the market square until the ravens come and peck out their eyes,” his breath cuts off with a gasp, wiping harshly again at his cheeks.

Derek’s hands rubbing up and down his spine, feeling every rub beneath the thin layer of skin, he’s certain he feels like a corpse to the touch. Those hands slide along Stiles’s jaw, his thumbs dipping into his cheeks to press him back again, to force his eye contact gently, “are you certain this would do you good?”

“Yes. How can you not want it too? After the rumors I’ve heard? After they tortured you and murdered your crew, and your bonded mate in front of you? And your sister? And brothers? It must have hurt so badly,” his voice quavers then, thinking of the physical effects that would have had on Derek’s already beaten body. His hands flit off his own face on some instinct to touch him, to feel beneath the fabric of his blouse, to trail fingers over scars, his hands desperate for the contact. Tugging his blouse free of his breeches quickly, hands skirting over the dips and gulleys of muscle, fingers falling into scars. Derek’s breath has caught in his chest, and his face has leaned against Stiles’s, his lips just a breath away. He can taste him in the space between them.

“For seven days, they will be chained in the cells of the Fort. They have been chained since we boarded their ship. ’Twas Ennis,” his hand falls from Stiles’s face to the scar across his abdomen, the one that is barely healed, the one that was a still bleeding wound when he came into the bilge of the Demon Wolf, “who’s life I drained slowly through slicing his throat. I held his head in my hands, made certain he was looking at me, that his focus never wavered, just as he did with Paige, I made certain my face was the last thing he ever saw in this life. I made certain that he died slowly, as slowly as one can when bleeding out from the jugular. And I promised him that in the next life I would find him as well. That he could live a thousand lives and never be forgiven for what he did in this one,” his swell of anger has been growing since he began to speak. Now a palpable thing in the air around them. Setting Stiles’s body on edge, his muscles tense, ready for flight, but needing to stay here, needing to remain here with Derek to ground him.

Derek’s face pulls away suddenly, his eyes bright with anger and hatred when he peers into Stiles’s, “it didn’t bring her back. It didn’t erase any of this,” his hand motioning over the bare expanse of his chest, “it didn’t change a single damned thing. Only blood on my hands, so what do you suppose watching them suffer would bring you? Would it bring you joy? Or would it only bring you more images to fuel your nightmares? I assure you, they are marked with shackles ‘round their wrists, ‘round their ankles. I assure you that they have been rubbed down to the bone. I assure you that they are hungry and thirsty and soiled. I assure that they are suffering. I assure you that the cat o’ nine tails has licked every inch of their bodies and death will be a mercy now, a mercy none of them deserve, but there is only so much someone like my mother can dole out for punishment before she is considered harsh or out for personal vendetta. And there is only so much can be done within the laws of society before we are considered the criminals and monsters. There is only so much a person can withstand before the darkness creeps past the edges and overtakes the center,” his voice trembles now, clearing his throat before he tells Stiles calmly, “I shall set sail in the morn. You are welcome to remain behind in Beacon Harbor, my mother will find ye shelter and a place of employment. But I will not watch them hang. I will not go back on my word to return the others from the hold of the Demon Wolf to their rightful villages,” with that he rises to his feet, offers his hands for Stiles to take, guiding him to his feet, “supper on the hour,” as he motions towards the plate of fresh cut fruit he must have been preparing while Stiles was up here hiding and allowing his dark thoughts to choke out his voice of reason, “don’t ruin your appetite,” it’s said with a small smile while the sadness lingers in his eyes.

Captain Hale hesitates at the open doorway, drawing a deep breath possibly to steel himself, possibly to gather words of parting wisdom. Instead he turns, his body facing Stiles where he’s perched on the edge of the bed, his face soft and open, voice tender, “you are worthy of all things precious in this world. Please, whatever your choice tomorrow may be, do not allow yourself to forget that.”

Stiles can feel himself nod, acknowledging he’s heard the words, but he’s not certain he’ll understand their meaning. That his battered confidence will accept Derek’s kindness and caring. He’s unmoving as the door closes behind the captain’s broad shoulders, his vision blurry with tears and his breath a shaky weak exhale as he blinks at the fruit. There’s a pang in his chest, knowing that Derek was preparing him a snack, a beautiful snack of the finest tastes he’s never experienced. He was catering to Stiles’s whims even after the embarrassment of the market this noon. 

Stiles ruined that. He ruined the entire day. And yet Derek still believes him deserving of all things precious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The government sponsored torture of the alpha prisoners is something you're going to have to interpret to your own comfort level. Obviously the time period needs to be taken into consideration for how a prisoner would be treated. And also, I feel as though Derek has had his vengeance and he's not taking any trips to the dungeons himself to see what's happening, so it's quite possible that they are being treated humanely and it's Laura that's doing the big sister thing and assuring Derek that they are suffering, which then Derek is passing along to Stiles to comfort him. Anything is possible depending on how you interpret it. 
> 
> If you've made it this far, I salute you :) So will Stiles board the ship come dawn? The suspense is killing me... What's going to happen if he heads North with Derek? Will he stay? Will he leave with Derek? Will Derek end up staying in the North? And seriously, where the hell is the sheriff? Looks like I have a lot of loose ends to tie up... 
> 
> And looks like you won't have to wait long for the beginning of those answers... I just can't leave off for a week on sad Stiles because sad Stiles makes me sad and we already have enough to be sad over in general. So have a bonus third chapter for the week on me :)


	11. To Please Me

To Please Me

When Stiles did not join the family for supper, Derek assumed his mind had been made up. Instead of trying to coerce him or influence him, Derek went about procuring the rest of the necessities for the journey North. Deciding instead of returning to his chambers in the estate, he’d sleep aboard the Triskelion, make the last moment’s preparations in the morn and send Argent to gather any items left over at the estate. He is, perhaps, taking the cowardly way out by leaving Stiles in the hands of his very capable sister and mother. Perhaps Derek is a coward, perhaps he would not survive seeing more harm done to the lad, whether by his own hand or someone else's. 

It is Hale family tradition not to say farewells. There is no need for farewells, well wishes and superstitions serve no purpose upon the Sea. She is a beast of her own and no man, woman, sailor or landlubber can control her. Talia stood upon that very plank in that very harbor to wish her sons and daughter farewell what seems like a lifetime ago, and fat lot of good it did any of them. Derek lets the memories of them settle along his shoulders as he rows back for the last of the passengers. There shall be three stops along this journey, shall take them well over a month’s time. Time is no mind to Derek. He’s a man of the Sea and time aboard the vessel moves differently than time on dry land. 

The sun is a lazy ball of yellow on the horizon, reflecting early morning gems upon the calm surface of the Sea. Derek misses the wider brim of his old hat, allowing himself to briefly wonder what Stiles will do. Staying in Beacon Harbor will offer him a variety of opportunities. Should he choose to stay in the estate, Derek is certain Laura will place him in proper employment and urge him to seek education. His mind is too sharp to let fall to waste.

The sound of the ores in the water, the rhythmic pull and the easy movements that his muscles are accustomed to draw him to a sleepy dreamlike haze as he rows, alone in his galley. Sleep was allusive last night, but he trusts Boyd to handle the ship once they are upon the right course, allowing Derek to take a caulk this noon. He’ll need it, he’s certain being away from Stiles now, now that he’s grown accustomed to and somewhat fond of the lad, will be an adjustment. At times painful physically, after spending countless nights with the warmth and comfort of him in his bed. They’ve not bonded in the ways of society’s recognitions, but a friendship is a friendship and the complications of befriending an omega will always register more deeply with an alpha than that of a friendship with a beta. 

Belaying the ropes to secure his galley at the pier, he steps to the dock quickly, meeting his passengers with as much a welcoming stature as he’s able. Boyd’s galley secured and Erica’s not far behind, they shall gather the whole of them and weigh anchor upon boarding the Triskelion. 

Derek keeps his eyes trained on the passengers, not allowing them to drift towards the estate, or the marketplace, not allowing himself to search for his own hat in the crowd. Not allowing himself to wonder about the lad, to worry for him. He’s in good hands. That is all Derek needs remind himself of. 

There are quiet praises spoken, gratitudes bestowed upon his ears as the guests board the galleys. To them, he is a savior. Someone who interrupted their journey to the New World to become enslaved. But Derek knows he has much to atone for before he can be anyone’s savior. So he nods his acknowledgments and ushers his passengers onto the small vessel.

It isn’t until every last one of them is safely aboard that he takes in his surroundings. Letting his eyes trail the lines of passengers settling into the other galleys. Letting his vision focus on each and every face. All of them ready to go home. After the harrowing journey that must have seemed like an eternal Hell to most, they will be upon their home lands handsomely. 

As his eyes are tracing the length of the pier for any remaining stragglers, a scent trails across the salty breeze that he immediately recognizes. A tingle of relief spreads down his spine as his eyes dart across the space between them. He must steel himself as he gets a vision of Stiles’s harried movements. Derek’s hat sitting cockeyed on his head, his worn clothing directly from Derek’s wardrobe, bare feet padding across the planks. His face, mostly in shadow, is aimed down at the boards between them, and he’s muttering to himself. Derek can smell his frustration, but he seems unharmed, so it’s quite possible he’s just come to bid them farewell. He will not be boarding the Triskelion to voyage home.

Gathering himself, hands folded behind his back, shoulders squared, braced for the send off, he waits. Hoping to get a glimpse of the lad’s eyes, to understand why the haste and the anger rolling off him now getting stronger with every stride he takes. Every stride more harsh than the last, his breath ragged by the time Derek can hear it. It isn’t until he’s right there, within reaching distance that his eyes rise and lock onto Derek’s. Angry, an anger so fierce it knocks the wind out of Derek’s chest along with the hands that are immediately placed there to shove him. Shove him! 

“You bastard,” he’s speaking in low tones, words biting out through clenched teeth, but the feeling of them surfacing loud and clear, “you fucking yellow bellied prick!” his voice rising though he’s trying to control it, he shoves again, this time Derek is mildly more braced for it. Only taking one step back at the impact, his own hands lifting to grasp at Stiles’s wrists before he can pull back to gather the momentum for another shove. His eyes are twinkling with unshed tears and his bottom lip is chewed to a swollen blood stained mess, “how dare you leave your omega unattended in a vulnerable state! How dare you?!” his voice trembles and his teeth appear, only to bite down on his lip. It sends a shockwave of pain through Derek’s own system, “have you no caring at all for me? Laura assured me not to take your actions lightly, she assured me over and over again that you were more than a typical alpha, that when you commit to something you do it with all your heart. But that you are sweet, slow to court, wanting your swooning omega to make up their own mind without force,” his hands twist out of Derek’s grip to swipe the tears that have begun to trail down his cheeks, a deep breath that wrenches a knife into Derek’s gut, and his eyes ever so hopeful as he peers at Derek, “so I shall ask you again,” his voice whisper quiet, hard to hear over the lapping of gentle waves against the moorings, “have you no caring at all for me?”

“Stiles, I,” his hands rise from his sides where they’ve dropped, finding Stiles’s to take a light hold on, “to be blunt and honest, my feelings for you are of such magnitude that it terrifies me.”

As soon as the words pass his lips, his heart leaps from his chest to his throat and stays lodged there as Stiles’s eyes skim over his face, his nostrils flaring as he attempts to find a lie lingering upon a sour scent which could possibly call this a bluff. A small smile twists the corners of his luscious lips as he finds none such hints. A heated flush and the sickeningly sweet scent of overwhelming happiness overtakes the lad’s scent, he rushes forward until his lips meet Derek’s, diving into a deep, breathtaking kiss that Derek wishes will never end. 

When it ends, it is simply because Erica’s hoot and holler seeps into their reverie, “we be leavin’ this century Capt’n?” 

Stiles pulls away with a beautiful pink flush overtaking his soft pale skin, so beautiful in fact, that Derek rushes in to plant a dusting of kisses over his cheekbones before he allows the lad passage to the galley. 

———————

Derek was too daft to realize how uncomfortable the past night was without Stiles in his bed. Until now, with his soft weight, his bony frame plastered against Derek’s chest. His slow, sensuous explorations of Derek’s chest with his long fingers, his hesitant and pure dives into Derek’s mouth with his tongue. Waiting until Derek can respond with rumbles or swipes of his own before Stiles releases his fears and kisses Derek in a manner he’s never been kissed before. It’s passionate and intimate. The trust thrumming off Stiles’s entire body is something that Derek takes more pleasure in than the actual thought of having a pliant omega in his bed. Certainly it pleases his alpha to be entangled in the sweetness of an omega, but it pleases him even more deeply to have said omega’s earned trust. There is still much to be discussed, and much to be explored, there are boundaries that Stiles must set and lines that Derek will only cross once the omega allows it. Allows it with enthusiasm, not force or even mild pressure. 

He has rolled his hips in a manner to keep his erection away from Stiles, though he’s certain the lad can scent his arousal easily. It’s pungent even to himself, and the mixture of Stiles’s arousal is intoxicating. Though his is underscored by nerves, nerves which Derek intends to fully soothe. His hands remaining well above the lad’s belt. His chest smooth, bones too prominent, Derek’s thumbs trace over his collarbones and slip beneath the worn cotton of the blouse that is much too loose though it pleases him deeply to have their mingled scents on his clothing. Stiles shudders when his fingers trail over the deeply etched and unreciprocated bites along his neck, disengaging the kiss to lean his forehead against Derek’s.

Derek ceases his movements, perceiving the aroma to not have shifted. Stiles breath soft and warm against his lips, his heart a steady, content rhythm in his chest. 

“There is time,” Derek hears himself whisper, pressing softly against his lips before drawing back far enough to look at his face. The dark length of his eyelashes curled where they rest against his cheeks. The slope of his nose before it turns upward, the soft bow of his now kiss pinked lips, the irritation of his sensitive skin from Derek’s beard. He smooths a thumb over the marks, Stiles’s mouth opening with a quiet sigh as his eyes flutter beneath lids. Derek leans forward to brush his lips against his delicate eyelids, watching as they roll open when he draws away once more.

“How can you be so certain?” his bumbo colored eyes drizzled with warm honey and glazed with contentedness, “that there is time. After all you’ve been through, after all you’ve seen and all you’ve lost. How can you be so certain that tonight is not all we have?”

Derek’s fingers rest over the pulse in the lad’s neck, falling to trace over his collarbone again, not stopping until his hand is pressed firmly over his heart, letting the thuds of it echo in his own body as he whispers, “I suppose there is no way to be certain. ’Tis no comfort in a life lived though every day was your last. Nothing can be done to soften the blow of loss, no way to prepare for it. The only way to make memories last are to savor every single slow, innocent, and pure moment.”

Stiles’s fingers have tangled, one in his beard, the other in his braid. His lips pursed in thought, eyes calmly peering at Derek’s across the bedding between them. He takes a long moment before he speaks again, this time clearing his throat softly, wondering, “how is it possible after so much heartache that you can still be such a romantic?”

Derek feels a smile rise on his lips, one that Stiles’s fingers disentangle from his beard to trace the curve of, “I suppose I had romantic influences when I was a lad.”

“I take that to mean that the tales of your mother preying upon her alpha mates is pure rumor?” his lips twist into a playful smile, eyes lighting with amusement when a small laugh escapes him as Derek shakes his head, “I knew it was too fantastic to be true, but what a tale it makes!” he sighs as he slides over to his back on the bedding, tucking one hand behind his head to watch the ceiling above them, “will you tell me about her?”

“My mother?”

His head turns, watching Derek’s face as he wonders quietly, “Paige,” face pinching at the request, “apologies Captain, I overstepped…”

Derek takes his hand, the one that was resting on his chest, entwines his fingers and brings it to his lips, “no apologies Stiles, it does a person good to speak of memories. Paige was a lass I grew up with. She was a wild thing at heart, an orphan who used to sneak out and give the caretakers a run for their money. When she presented as omega, the rules were to be followed, she was to either be married off or sent to the mainland for training. My mother would have none of that. That has long been a law she’s fought and most recently won. The orphanage on the island no longer moves omegas as though they are nothing more than goods to be shipped to another port. At that time, her hands were tied and though I was preparing to ship off to the Navy, they arranged a marriage between us. It may have begun as a protective measure, but through letters written she became more to me than just a friend. She was the person I confided in. And when it came time for my service to either continue for life or end, I chose to sign the Letter of Marque so I could sail my own rig, and Paige could sail by my side. It wasn’t only for her that I made that decision, it was also to be closer to home. To serve my mother and the Harbor,” the slow and steady pulses of pressure from Stiles’s hand keeping him grounded, keeping him here with the lad he’s grown to desire as a mate. 

He takes a deep breath, allowing the scent of him to overtake the memories that are threatening to haul wind through his current life. Stiles’s eyes are soft, his expression open, drawing so much from Derek’s being that he’s certain to be bled dry by the time the lad gets to the bottom of all his queries. Derek’s been told multiple times by his mother and by Laura that only through talking should he render his guilt useless, but it seems he’s not found the words to place on the events of that fated journey. 

The lad’s perceptive nature quite apparent in his gentling hand placed upon Derek’s cheek, in the soft scrapping of his fingers against the skin beneath his beard, in the tender curve of his lips as they press together and he nods ever so slightly to end the conversation for the night with a quick press of lips on lips and an exhale only as soft as butterflies wings against Derek’s mouth.

———————

The days pass working side by side, Stiles learns quickly how to read a map, how to plot a course, how to decipher wind speeds and ocean currents. He learns quickly the ways of sea-faring life. His lithe frame beginning to harden with the strength of muscles hard at work. Derek surmises he’ll need more rations to keep up with his body’s activity levels. The alpha part of him would like nothing more than for Stiles to lounge his days away in their chambers, eating enough to get plump, but the rational part of him knows that is not within Stiles’s character. 

He finds that the days pass much more quickly now than they ever have before and the nights are spent in tangled tongues and traveling hands. His attention to keeping his pelvis away from Stiles is shattered when he’s reading to him, the lad plastered to his side, eyes traveling the words along the book with Derek’s voice; a sudden heavy sigh, his exquisite hands rising to swat the book away as he clambers into Derek’s lap and darts into his mouth without restraint. 

He falls into it, the way he has for multiple nights now, how easy it is for Stiles to make himself comfortable in Derek’s arms, his bed, his mouth. It’s easy to forget the rest of the world and all the worries he’s been keeping inside of him concerning their most intimate times together. The ideas that Stiles will want nothing to do with his hard cock, or worse be afraid of it. The thought that his mind will never be in sync with his body after what the Alpha Brotherhood did to him. 

But tonight is different, tonight there’s no hiding a thing when Stiles has sufficiently wrapped his body around Derek’s, his exploring tongue and his wandering hands, things that are intimately familiar with every plain of his chest and stomach, his back, shoulders, arms and neck. But have remained above his belt. Not tonight. And Derek realizes it too late that he’s full mast and the scent of Stiles’s omega reaction to it is clear in his nostrils when the lad pulls back with a naughty smirk on his lips, tilting his chin towards their laps and uttering, “the rumors be quite wrong then?” before darting back into Derek’s lips, kissing his heart’s content as his hands slide down under his blouse, tugging it up from his breeches to drag it over his head. Forgoing buttons and removing his own blouse between lip contacts. Derek notes the lack of fear in his scent as his hands drop to Derek’s belt, skirt along his waistline, hesitate to free his cock of his breeches, his words mashed against Derek’s lips but clear enough to understand, “if it please my alpha, I would…”

Derek’s hands act quickly, taking hold of the lad’s face to draw him away far enough to see his eyes, “no,” the first word is rather more forceful than he intended, making Stiles flinch. His hands have frozen on Derek’s stomach, and now that spike of fear that he’s been dreading has risen in his aroma. Derek takes a deep inhale and softens his grip, “not me, Stiles. You need not worry about what pleases me. You only need take your pleasure how you see fit,” the lad’s lip gets tucked into his teeth, the fear lessening as his eyes flit over Derek’s face, not alighting anywhere for long, “what pleases me,” watching his thumb trail over the smooth hollow of Stiles’s cheek, “is what pleases you. You need never do a thing in the bedroom that you don’t want to do. You need never do a thing to please me, just your presence is more than pleasing.”

A pink flush creeps up his pale cheeks, eye contact faltering once again, mouth falling slightly open in wonder as he thinks it over, he can see it in the lad’s eyes when his desire overhauls his insecurities. A coy smile tugging up the corners of his lips before he closes the distance between them and resumes his oral explorations. 

His fingers no longer hesitant in the least when he goes after Derek’s breeches, tugging and yanking until the only remaining layers between them are their thin under-britches. Stiles breaks the kiss to catch his breath, leaning his forehead against Derek’s, a tremble in his exhale.

Derek remains still, silently breathing as Stiles inhales deeply and grinds his hips in Derek’s lap. It drags a low rumble from his chest, which Stiles interprets correctly as assurance. His lips meeting Derek’s again, this time with less focus as his mind flits through all the possible ways he could seek pleasure with Derek’s body beneath him. It is true, the things they say about male omegas having many more pleasure zones than male betas or alphas. A fact that has oft times made people mistake them for wanton beasts. But a fact that Derek rather appreciates as he can focus his attention over the zones that have been less abused by the Alpha Crew. He shudders as his mind dredges the image of the lad when he first laid eyes upon him, distracting himself easily when Stiles grinds again, testing angles until he finds one that pleases him. A surge of arousal stinging Derek’s nostrils, so potent ’tis enough to drown him if he cannot anchor himself. 

His fingers slide over the warm, sweat slicked surfaces of him. Memorizing every plain and valley of his back from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine. Fingers skittering over the hem of his under-britches, but not dipping beneath the fabric. Stiles’s breath catches, his motions becoming more certain, responding to Derek’s whispering sighs with every grind against his achingly hard cock. It’s been so long, that Derek was nearly beginning to believe the rumors to be true himself. So long since he sought pleasure in another being, knowing full well that his own self-pleasure was just a physical need to be fulfilled every so often. To keep him from getting overly aggressive if the tales be believed. Though he’s certain that the most aggressive alphas he’s ever been around are those who have raped and taken without permission, those who have abused their status to get things they desire until it is nothing more than an addiction for power. The power a rogue alpha can wield over a powerless omega has never been a thing Derek has desired. 

Stiles breaks the kisses with a harsh pant of breath, his forehead leaning so hard against Derek’s that it hurts, his fingers have ceased to move, now lingering against Derek’s ribs, pressing indentations that he’s nearly certain will bruise, “Derek, I,” his breath chokes off and his instinct to bare his throat cannot be fought. 

Instead of giving into his alpha, who seeks to claim especially in the heat of the moment, Derek stifles his urges in the pale expanse of his chest. His mouth mapping out the lines of his muscles, lean and flawless, trailing closed lips across his skin to leave splotches of beard burn behind. His arms have tightened around the lad’s body, holding him close, keeping himself grounded by focusing on his heartbeat, on the intricacies of his scent and the pattern of his breathing. Harsh now with impending release, one that he must reach himself, one that Derek will not order of him. His hands still on Stiles’s shoulder-blades, bringing him closer to his wandering mouth as Stiles undulates against him. Rubbing his wet under-britches against Derek’s, changing his angle and allowing Derek’s cock to slip along the the curve of his ass. He cries out at the contact through the thin layers. As Derek mouths at the small pink nub of his nipple, a full bodied shudder racks his bones. He gasps for air as though he’s been held underwater and deprived of oxygen until his lungs are near bursting.

Derek’s hands fall to his hips, holding him steady as his body is being wrung out with pleasure. The scent of it lighting Derek’s insides with hot sparks of his own stifled desires. When the scent of Stiles’s cum weaves into the tender aroma surrounding them, Derek draws it in with flared nostrils, his own hips jolting upwards out of both conscious and unconscious instincts. Rubbing with an aching dryness of cotton surrounding him, only dampened enough with Stiles’s slick to soften it slightly, the addition of his own precum scent mingling in the web of tangled aromas, and slipping down along the tip of his cock, bringing more dampness to the grind. Stiles gasps once more at the slide along his ass crack, a soft whimper escaping him as he leans his face into the top of Derek’s head, his breath trailing through his hair, fingers tugging on his braid, tugging to guide his head. 

He tilts until he can gain the vision of the young man lingering above him. The shine of exertion on his skin, the rosy pink undertones of pleasure and the haze of his honey infused river stone eyes. When Stiles’s lips meet Derek’s again and he grinds his hips down into Derek’s lap, putting the last bit of pressure on his aching cock to release the intense rolling wave of orgasm from him. Through the deafening pleasure he hears himself gasp as Stiles drags his teeth along his bottom lip, biting down ever so gently, just enough to jolt a bolt of lightening straight to his core. 

The last pulse of his orgasm makes Stiles’s entire frame go limp against him, his lips lazily parting to let Derek’s wandering tongue swipe across his a few times as they both gather their sea legs after such a storm of passion. 

Stiles hums after a long moment of gentle probes and sucks of lips and tongues, closing his mouth to swallow as his ever busy mind raises sail again, wondering, “does it not bother you that your crew believes your cock to be merely a vessel bound to the shipyard?”

Derek grunts amusement, to which Stiles draws back far enough to peer at him with confusion in his brow. Derek slides a hand across his jaw, and Stiles leans into it, assuring him, “my crew and I have been through much together. And none of the battles won nor lost have been decided by my ability to raise my mizzenmast.”

“Mizzenmast,” Stiles grins, eyes sparkling with amusement, “the largest and most important mast on the ship, hmm?”

“Perhaps,” Derek feels his expression respond in kind to the lighthearted joy on the omega’s face, as he nuzzles his nose against his cheek, laying kisses along his jaw, regretfully having to release his hold on the lad’s body, allowing him to extricate himself when he should please. 

Instead, Stiles responds with a wicked roll of his sinuous hips which drags a pained moan out of Derek as his oversensitive cock attempts to hoist itself back into the fray, “’tis a possibility,” Stiles mumbles, leaning into Derek’s lips again, languorously brushing his tongue along the seam of Derek’s mouth. 

Certain the omega is more likely to fall asleep rather than go a second round, Derek allows himself to sink into it. Sliding both of their bodies down the bedding, settling in with his limbs heavy weights around Stiles’s sleek frame. Tangling enough to be a blanket should he need it when the slickness of sweat begins to dry and the chill of the nighttime air floats in the open portholes. But not so much for him to feel trapped there should he need his space.

With his hand stilled on Derek’s neck, fingers trying valiantly to tap his way back to wake, he loses the battle with the comfort of sleep. Nodding off with his supple lips still against Derek’s as they fall open, eyes remaining shut, sleep rhythms taking over, sweet scents of contentment, comfort, and home mixing and mingling with the drying remains of their intimacy. 

Derek leans just far enough away from his face to admire the curve of his bone structure, the tender fluttering of his eyes beneath his lids, the curled beauty of his lashes, and the brilliant shape of his lips that Derek yearns to feel on every surface of his body. He slides a gentling hand over his side, tucking the sheet up to cover the majority of his body, leaning forward to plant a whisper of a kiss against his forehead. Knowing he’ll wait. He’ll wait as long as the lad requires. He’s eagerly willing to follow the whims of the omega. Whatever those whims may be and whenever they should arise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek sort of had to have a lapse in judgment (by assuming Stiles had made up his mind instead of talking to him about it) in order for Stiles to stand up for himself and make his decision to come along - and it felt pretty good to see some fire back in him, didn't it? Stiles still has a long way to go, and we'll get there.


	12. Most Painful Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some insight into the Hale/Argent feud in this universe so there's talk of fire and death of Peter's wife and children. Nothing too graphic.

Most Painful Past

It feels as though they’ve spent days sailing towards the hazy line of the horizon. The sparkling diamonds of sun across the surface of the Sea, the low light blue of the sky. Where the horizon is curved and the land is nowhere to be seen. Though in Stiles’s mind, he knows where they are, he follows the map every morn and night. Derek’s shown him how to plot courses and even allowed him to plot the course between their first stop and their second. Third and final will be Stiles’s home. Home. But when he looks at Derek, deep in conversation with Boyd at the helm, he wonders what home truly is. How home will feel without the comforting presence of the captain beside him. Is it possible to be yearning so terribly for something that’s not been lost yet?

“Smells like lovesick omega up ‘ere,” Erica’s voice cuts into his fog as she sidles up next to him, unsurprisingly scenting the air right next to his neck, “how ye be pinin’ away for somethin’ right in front of ye and all over ye?” a sharp elbow jolts into his ribs, dragging his eyes to meet hers. Twinkling with mischief, a cocky smirk on her face, “suppose those rumors be false, then, eh?”

Stiles guffaws, attempts to swallow down the blush before it can rise up his neck and cheeks, fails miserably and doesn’t bother stifling the smile, admitting, “blow those rumors down, lass. They are foul rot,” he speaks in low tones, knowing Derek’s hearing is keyed in on his voice now even if they’ve not bonded. There will still be part of him that is highly familiar with Stiles’s tones and cadences, whether conscious or not, he’ll be geared towards the omega voice in order to protect at all times.

Erica winks at him, slides her arm through his elbow, “come along then,” tilting her head towards the galley, “splice the mainbrace, loosen those pretty lips o’ yers and put those rumors to bed,” she’s tugging him along with her and he knows resisting would be folly at this point. He’s no kiss and tell kind of lad, and whatever it is she seeks, he will not spill the details of Derek’s most intimate secrets, but he’s not opposed to rubbing elbows with Derek’s crew. In fact, he’d rather enjoy getting on with them, he’s certain. No matter how temporary his place here may be.

Derek catches him looking his way, it’s possible he’s seeking the permission of his alpha, but if he is Derek doesn’t give it. His eyes twinkle and a smile tugs his lips as he takes note of the lass dragging Stiles across the main deck. A tingle of desire shoots hot and quick through Stiles’s core at the sight of that smile, his body reacting with a grin of his own while his mind shuffles through all the things he’d likely do to see that smile. 

———————

He’s loaded to the gunwales with not only rum, but with gossip as well by the time Scotty joins the merriment. He sets a plate in front of Stiles, and he attacks it with reckless abandon as Scott admits, “Captain’s orders you eat the whole meal.”

“Aye aye,” Stiles responds through his mouthful. 

Scott’s smile is very telling of all the things that are running around in his head, his eyes scouring over Stiles from the top of his hat (Derek’s hat), to every part of him that is visible. Nearly expecting his friend to duck under the table in order to continue his inventory, Stiles taps the table to get his attention, shrugging his shoulders in lieu of speaking with his mouth filled to the gills, urging Scott to make his observation known.

Scott’s dopey smile turns into a grin and he admits happily, “you look healthy again,” it’s soft and quiet, his hand rising to reach across the table and squeeze Stiles’s quickly with pride before dropping his eye contact and digging into his own meal, seamlessly entering the conversations with Erica and Isaac when the lad appears to sup. 

Stiles mostly tunes in and out of the conversation, letting it weave in and out of his mind while he tucks away the useful gossips for later investigation. It’s when the topic of Peter arises that he tunes back in, leave it to Scott to ask questions about the man. Stiles mostly avoids him, he seems rather harmless though he stayed at the house of ill repute while upon the island instead of staying with his family at the estate. He joined them for supper only once while ashore. The relationship between him and Talia seems rather stunted for two siblings. Not that Stiles really knows what it’s like to have a sibling, but from what he’s observed and from what he’s had with Scott for the entirety of their lives. 

Erica sets her tankard down on the table, rolling it between her palms for a long moment, her eyes drifting over to Allison where she stands with the pitcher. Once it’s refilled, she stares at the amber liquid before beginning, “’twas just a young lass myself when it ‘appened. But the shrieks be a thing not a soul on that island will ever forget,” leaning forward, keeping her voice down. Stiles finds himself leaning towards the center of the table to hear her, “ye’ve all ‘eard the stories,” her eyes narrow, shooting daggers at Allison for a long moment while she spats out the name as though it’s poison, “Argents and their hunger for power. Dirty pickaroons, all of ‘em ye ask me,” her chin tilts, lip curling aggressively towards the servant girl when she eyes the table, “rot in the gibbet t’were it up to me,” this time she does spit towards the lass who merely sidesteps it and keeps her chin high.

“Avast,” Scott declares, “Allison had nothing to do with it.”

“Don’t matter,” Erica leans back now, draining the full contents of the tankard in long swallows, wiping her lips with her sleeve, “bad blood runs in the family,” her gaze is solely focused on Allison as she speaks, “kids in there, in that house. When they torched it. Kids ain’t got a choice. Nor did Lizzy, Peter’s mate. She weren’t no scalllywag neither, she ’s good stock. ’Twas where the fire started. Rumor ‘as it, they were after ‘im,” she jerks her shoulder in the general direction of the kitchen, “and Talia. Wanted all Hales dead, but them two most of all,” she slams her tankard down on the table. Staring at Allison so hard the lass is likely to burst into flames where she stands.

Isaac reaches across the wooden table, dumping the remains of his ale into Erica’s empty vessel, telling her quietly, “this is your last for the night.”

Erica scowls at him and sulks into her tankard instead of finishing the story. Isaac takes a deep breath, leaning back with one arm folded behind his head and his voice so quiet it’s hard to hear through the din of the crowd at prime supper time, “the Argent/Hale saga stretches back centuries. Seems the two families have been more likely to be at each other’s throats than,” his eyes briefly flit over Stiles’s throat where the bouquet of bite marks blooms over his collar, “caged alphas,” he mutters it, ashamed to use the phrase, somewhat of an apology in his expression before he continues, “’twas peaceful competition mostly. ’Til what likely happened was a bout of jealousy. Talia was the first omega to rise to such power, and she did it with her fair share of hurdles to leap over, but she remained fair and peaceful. The Argent family held their grudges, way back to a time when both families lived in France. It seemed as though the feud had died when the Hales made settlement in Beacon Harbor. They gained the entire island by fighting France for it, mostly done with lack of blood spill, rather with papers signed and tariffs agreed upon. Gerard was sent from France twice yearly to inspect the island, to make certain their agreements were being met. Gerard then settled his children upon the island, claiming it was the land and the freedom that appeased him, while still being the ambassador who supposedly had no political ambitions though later revealed his family was nothing but interlopers. They moved seamlessly about the island, became a part of it, really. Then,” Isaac sighs, his fingers tracing the ledge of the table as his eyes grow sad, “they made their move. Burned the Hale estate to the ground with as many of them inside as they could manage. Lucky for us, most of them escaped. Erica was correct though, about Lizzy and the children. A beam fell across their only escape route, rendering it useless as they burned alive. Talia and Benjamin had to drag Peter out, he was likely to burn himself to death trying to rescue them. Even after it was no use, after it was clear they were long gone, he tried to claw his way back inside for them.”

Silence falls around the table for a moment, enough of a moment for Stiles’s curiosity to grow until he must ask, “they were bonded and married? Isn’t it likely to kill an alpha should his long time mate pass? On top of that, children?”

“Aye,” Isaac nods, “Peter was kept inside the halls of the fort, some say he was locked up and straight jacketed. To keep him safe from himself. Oft times, it’s a slow death from a broken heart. But for Peter the grief was so strong, so sudden, and so violent that instead of a broken heart, a need for vengeance grew in its place. He became rather violent and unpredictable.”

“With good reason,” Stiles avers.

“Aye, but Talia couldn’t have her own brother seeking vengeance when she was always known for her fairness. So after Gerard and his awful daughter Kate were tried and punishment was decided upon, after they were hanged in the town square and the rest of the Argent family was either sent back to France or entered servitude like Chris and Allison, only then was Peter allowed out of the fort. He never speaks of it, and I’ve never the brass to ask my captain what’s rumor and what’s truth. Just as Erica, I was only young, too young to remember much of it. Other than the smell of smoke that lingered for weeks, the bloody battle that waged in the fort afterward, killing Chris’s wife Victoria who was also revealed to be one of the interlopers, scalawag no one expected. She had been rather well respected in her time in the Harbor. Had even made a friendship with Talia herself,” Isaac’s gaze stays on the middle of the table, the empty supper wares between them while he chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment looking as though he thinks he may have spoken too freely. He takes a deep breath, shoves out of the table to stand, ending the conversation rather abruptly, “good night lads.”

“Good night,” Scott and Stiles respond in unison. Stiles’s head is buzzing with so many questions it’s hard to keep them all straight inside his mind, and even harder to keep them from landing on his tongue and passing his lips as soon as his eyes land on Derek as he enters the galley.

It is quite normal for the man to sup with his crew, rare for him to partake in spirits afterward, but he’s quite a companionable man for his crew, more so than most captains. His beautiful eyes sweep across Stiles immediately, even before he gathers a plate for himself, he moves to check with Stiles, “shall you require any more sustenance?” his hand landing surely on Stiles’s shoulder.

“Nay,” he pats his belly for show, though he’s nearly certain he has room for more stew, but the unsettling story he’s just heard is making it hard to consider supping further. 

Derek nods, eyes lingering on Stiles’s face for long before he moves towards the kitchen. Stiles chews on his lip, wondering if it’s possible for Derek to see or scent that he’s been given more knowledge of his family’s most painful past. He’d not go behind Derek’s back for information, not really, he just so happened to be here when it came up in conversation. And should something about the Alpha Brotherhood and the fateful journey that ended in the death of Derek’s crew come up in casual conversation, Stiles would surely excuse himself. Some things need come from the source. Doesn’t seem likely he’ll ever know the story, doesn’t seem likely that even Derek’s crew is willing to revisit those painful stories or quite possibly even know them. 

It should really come as no surprise when the captain seats himself next to Stiles and passes him a fresh bowl of stew that he didn’t ask for. Looking at it steaming pleasantly in the space in front of him, he’s really in no position to decline the gift after all. 

———————

“I shall require a story this eve, Derek,” Stiles announces upon entering their quarters. His fingers flit out from his sides, fidgeting in his place, wondering now that barking orders to his alpha is not befitting of his place.

“Go ahead then,” Derek tilts his head towards the books, bending to remove his boots. Stiles pauses, he knows what society expects of an omega. And that is to help the man remove his boots. But he knows what Derek expects of him. And that is to pick out a book and make himself comfortable. 

Chewing on his thumbnail while Derek removes his second boot, trying and failing to stifle the next demand on his tongue, “I shall require a story that has not been put in book form.”

“Oh?” his full attention lands on Stiles when he straightens back out to stand.

“Yes,” he speaks as firmly as he’s capable given the part of him that still wants to cower in the darkest of corners, his mind filling quickly with previous experiences of exerting himself over an alpha. 

“You need only speak your request, Stiles,” Derek reminds him as though he’s the one here to serve. Possibly, he is. Stiles observed much at the Hale estate, the dynamic between Talia and Benjamin so much unlike any of the tales he’s heard tell, and so much unlike any of the things he’s learned in his youth and in his time in the Demon Wolf’s bilge. A shudder rips down his spine and Derek takes a slow step forward as if reading his mind, his hands landing softly on Stiles’s arms, “’tis nothing you can say that will force my hand. ’Tis no such thing as a forced hand between us.”

Stiles feels a flush creeping up his neck, his body pulling away from Derek’s hold while Derek readily allows it, just to pace the chambers as he searches for the proper words to make his request. There’s so much still he’d like to know, and possibly it is his best bet to start with something smaller, something seemingly insignificant, instead of diving right into the queries of Deucalion and Derek’s murdered siblings and mate. His fingers skitter across the spines of the books, different than the last journey, he must have switched them at the library upon the island. A deep breath before words start to tumble without his permission, “by now we know so much of one another, we know many intimate details and I have memorized the lines of your smile but also the indents of scars. I believe I have come to meet every color of your eyes, and every gentle rumbling of your chest in the night. But there is much still to learn. Not only details of your childhood, but also of your family, and though Laura had the grace to share much,” his gaze rises to meet the captain’s in time to see his eyes roll at the mention, “I will allow you to only wonder what, in fact, she deemed worthy to share,” letting himself show a smile with the ribbing even if Laura did not tell any stories of embarrassment, “but I should very much like to hear it all, Derek, everything about you.”

Derek’s eyes shift down to Stiles’s lips, linger there as though he’s wondering if it’s possible he could just kiss the worries away. It is quite possible, really. When his eyes dip further and land on the bite marks, long enough to make Stiles squirm, Derek clears his throat, forces his gaze back to Stiles’s eyes and wonders gently, “where shall I begin?”

Stiles’s hand rises to slap his forehead with a scoff, “at the beginning! ’Tis where stories begin!”

Derek’s eyes twinkle at that and his mouth quirks up at the corners, wondering, “and what of you, Stiles? What’s your story?”

“Unfair,” crossing arms over his chest, “I asked you first.”

Derek unbuttons his top button, shaking his head to himself, “am I allowed to get comfortable before we begin?”

“No,” Stiles teases, “you shall put your boots back on, latch your belt, and stand at ready while you project your voice to your proper audience.”

“A proper audience. Does that mean you shall be requiring fine clothes for this affair? Perhaps a supper at the most extravagant of establishments beforehand? A properly adorned carriage? Gifts by the end of the eve?”

Stiles feels himself grinning recklessly at the very idea of him being treated like a proper gentlemen, “scupper that Captain! Take off your clothing and get talking. Don’t spare me the curse words and foul details at any point,” his hands have darted out from his sides without his express permission and started generally gesturing around the room, first at Derek, then at the bedding, finally alighting on his own blouse to make quick work of the buttons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm blaming differing speech patterns on different levels of eduction/different regions, and also because I really wanted Erica especially to sound more fitting for a pirate :) But I didn't want everyone to sound alike, and also it would be hard to write all the dialogue with those types of speech patterns. So hopefully it's not too much when it's in her dialogue.


	13. Not Broken

Not Broken

Derek is uncertain of when the lad fell asleep, but he is certain that he is soundly there now. He settled into Derek’s chest as though he’d done it a million times, as though it was a place he belonged. His comfort in Derek’s arms is something he’s grown rather fond of, looking forward during the days to time spent in their chambers in the eve. Whether it is time exploring each other’s bodies or minds, it is the most enjoyable part of Derek’s day. Something he’s going to have to tamp down in the coming time, the nearer they travel to Stiles’s home, the more he’s going to have to distance himself. Or at the very least, try.

It’s complicated at this stage. When the omega is still recovering from so much. Derek’s eyes drift over the alabaster tones of his bare chest, finding the crevices in his skin left behind by the bindings ‘round his wrists. He watches as his thumbs trail back and forth over each wrist, as though he can wipe them away that simply. No matter how hard he may allow himself to try, Derek knows better than to believe a scar can be erased with nurturing and delicate caresses. 

The queries came with fervor at the beginning of the eve. Passing his supple lips like nothing more complicated than breathing, his head craned over his shoulder to watch Derek’s face. It was as though he was memorizing each and every expression he offered as he spoke. His eyes lighting up every time Derek gave him a smile, twinkling every time he chuckled, and downright dancing every time he laughed. It was easy to open up and talk about his siblings. It was rather therapeutic to speak of them in the times they were young. The way Nathan would rather spend his days in the library, tucked in a quiet corner to read volumes upon volumes of books. The way Cora was always escaping at every chance, running to the beach to splash in the surf, or climbing the cliffs to hunt for parrots. Convinced as she was that she would catch a ride on the wing of one of the majestic birds and it would carry her all the way to the Americas. Lucas, the baby of the family, and the eternal round faced child in Derek’s mind. The way he’d try his hardest to follow Cora only to grow tired of the chase and careen his way back to the estate to steal sweets from the kitchen. It’s hard to believe, even now, that they are the same kids that had become young adults with the heavy haze of the fire clouding their minds, grown into themselves even further as Derek was away at academy, and made themselves ready to set sail in chase of the Demon Wolf. 

He shakes his head to himself, the quiet of the chamber intermingled with the soft sounds of Stiles sleeping against him. Rather heavy when he’s sound, Derek tangles his fingers with the long graceful ones of the omega, grounding himself with the sugary blissful scent of his dreams. At least the lad dreams of pleasantries, at least Deucalion and his rapscallions could not take that from him. 

Derek leans into soft mass of dark hair, letting himself take a deep breath of the scent of him, letting it echo through every cavern of his mind and soul. He’ll take these moments now, he’ll take them greedily. Though he told the lad that they have time, and he means that most certainly when it comes to his sexual desires, he knows good times come with limits. And he’d be daft to allow himself to believe otherwise.

———————

The first village is rather quaint. A small fishing affair on the Barbary Coast. They linger only long enough there to provide the safe passage as was promised. The route that Derek plotted along with Stiles will take them around the coast of France, through the Bay of Biscay and into the English Chanel to their second stop. There, they shall take a day or more to rest and resupply the ship. With larger shipping ports, it shall be more convenient to take some time there. 

It will be a long, chilly journey to make it to the Baltic Sea where Stiles and Scott, and a handful of their final passengers will be rowed ashore. Following the final destination for this journey, Derek and his crew will make way back to Beacon Harbor and with any luck take some time away from the Sea. Have a well-earned vacation of sorts. 

Derek isn’t certain how much longer a man can belong to the Sea, how many of his years he can spend in the privateering business, being the middle man in the trades of the waterways. He’s fairly certain it won’t be long before the whole of Europe and the Americas turn their back on the signed Letter of Marque and start treating privateers as pirates. Hanging Derek and his like in towns across the coast alongside lawless thieves and rogues like the Alpha Brotherhood. 

He’s always been drawn to her, to her wild unpredictable nature, to the salt and freedom of the horizon. But now as he looks out over the vastness of blue and green depths, he wonders if he’ll truly be happy without ever settling down. 

———————

The lamplight is casting yellow hues across the pale canvas of flesh beneath him, his lips leaving a trail across the lad’s jaw, down his bared neck, and towards the center of his chest. Strong legs wrapped loosely around Derek’s hips, still clad in under-britches, they’ve not needed to go beyond initial explorations as of yet. Both getting their pleasure in just the contact of mouths on mouths, hands searching and finding, pelvises grinding through thin cotton trousers. Normally Derek prefers for Stiles to be in his lap, or lingering overtop of him. Giving the lad all the control in the chambers, his whims and wants explored eagerly. But tonight, Stiles was already on his back, watching Derek as he undressed, hunger in his eyes, his tongue darting out to lick his luscious lips every now and again, hands immediately reaching for Derek’s hips to bring him to the bedding as soon as he was within gripping range. He didn’t resist the pull of the omega’s hands as he settled over the lanky expanse of him. 

Now, as he kisses his desires into the sweat filmed flesh beneath him, he wonders between presses, “would it be too much to ask the permission to suck your cock?”

At that, Stiles’s heart thuds hard against his ribs, his breath catches, his scent sours and his body scampers out from beneath Derek’s, dragging himself to the head of the bed, bringing the blanket with him to cover his bare chest. His fingers are white against the white blanket and his mouth hangs agape for a moment as his cheeks flush, eyes blinking rather rapidly.

Derek assures, “I will not take offense at a denial,” leaning away to give the lad room. No longer touching each other, his skin bereft of the softness of contact and the cling of sweat. He takes a deep breath, dragging a pillow over to hide his erection. His desire has never been to frighten the lad. Especially not now.

“I,” he starts, stumbles, tries again, “but, I,” swallows hard, the stench of nerves is almost enough to choke on, “you’re the alpha.”

“Yes. Indeed.”

“And I,” his breath chokes off, his voice lowers as though there might be someone outside the door listening intently, ready to haul Derek to the gibbet at a moment’s notice for making the offer, “I am an omega,” spitting it like it’s a dirty word he can’t wait to get off his tongue.

Derek’s hand rises, falling gently over the tender skin of the lad’s ankle. He rolls to his side, stretching his body across the foot of the bedding, keeping some distance but offering a point of contact. Wanting for his hand to stifle the sour scent of embarrassment and self-loathing rising off Stiles now.

“You are,” Derek confirms.

“And that is, you are, you are offering to,” his voice drops again, barely above a whisper, “suck my cock,” gulping for air and failing to find dignity in the words, repeating, “I am an omega.”

“Yes,” Derek nods, “may I ask you some personal questions?”

“I,” his cheeks are strawberry red, eyes wide, focus solely on Derek in disbelief, “suppose. Yes. Maybe,” he squirms.

Derek rubs his hand down to the middle of his foot, back up to his ankle. Feeling the knobs of bone beneath his thumb and forefinger, “have you experience with pleasuring yourself?”

There’s a stunted nod in response, “when I must.”

“It needs not be a dirty thing, Stiles. You are young, physically able, and your body is truly a marvel.”

“Mine?” his voice squeaks a little, “ _my_ body?!”

“Yes,” Derek feels the corners of his lips turn slightly to a smile, his hand rubbing along the lad’s foot. He’s not drawing it away, nor getting more tense, “a male omega is…”

“An abomination,” he hisses it. Jerking his foot out of Derek’s grasp, turning his gaze to anywhere but Derek.

“No,” bringing himself to seated, holding his hands outwards, palm up between them, “not at all, Stiles, you are a human being who…”

“Is meant for nothing more than breeding and I can’t even do that!” his voice shakes, body jolting out of the bed, leaving the blanket behind only to grab for his clothing.

“No, Stiles, please, allow me to finish my sentence.”

“No, I don’t want to hear it! I don’t want to hear how I am a treasure or some line of horse shit like such! I am not a good to be traded at market! I am,” he’s stopped moving, his breeches pulled up his legs, nearly tied into place, hands grasped there as his nostrils flair, breaths coming out in short gusts as tears rapidly fill his eyes, “I am broken Derek. And you’ve no need for me.”

Derek slowly brings himself to the edge of the bed, keeping his eyes trained on the lad’s the whole while. Forcing himself to take deep breaths, projecting as much calm towards the shaking omega as he’s capable, “Stiles, I would never compare you to a good. You are not an object. Nor a treasure. You are not meant for just breeding, or servitude. You are meant for much more than that, and you are so much stronger than you think yourself,” he dares take a step towards Stiles who backs up. Pausing where he stands, Derek keeps his hands out between them, palm up and open to show he has no means to beat him with. He makes no moves to make a fist. He’ll have none such desire to leave bruises or broken skin of any sort on the lad. 

He watches as Stiles clenches his jaw, his eyes light up in the dim glow of the chambers, with a sort of stubborn flair he’s not seen since Cora. Derek stifles a smile at the thought. And waits for the lad to gather himself enough to speak.

“What then, Derek, is a male omega? If not a treasure, or a good, or a breeding ground?”

“A male omega is quite possibly the luckiest of us all,” he finally finishes the sentence he started moments ago.

Stiles doesn’t respond verbally, his eyebrows lifting, some of the fire extinguishing from his eyes as curiosity overrides the anger, “how so?” his voice remains a low growl.

“Male omegas have more pleasure zones than any other creature on Fathers’s green Earth, or Mother’s blue Sea. Your body more capable than mine, an alpha, your mind more capable than any beta, and your strength something to marvel. Stiles, you are truly the best of us.”

The lad’s mouth falls open in shock, his eyes maintaining a carefully constructed boredom, his voice giving his facade away, “pardon?” with a squeak.

Derek chuckles, “I don’t know what you’ve learned of your own physiology, but you are built of all the finest parts, and you, specifically have the intelligence of a man twice your age, and the determination of a ram.”

“A ram?” boredom interlaces with amusement and his eyes finally twinkle like a dim star falling though the night’s sky and landing atop the ocean.

“Indeed.”

“Alright, I’ll give you that one,” he dares a slight smile, his hands finally falling away from his breeches and rising to comb through his hair, “so tell me then, what exactly is it I should know about my own physiology? And how exactly do you deem yourself an expert in the make-up of a male omega?”

Derek sinks back onto the edge of the bed, now that the threat of the lad leaving has dissipated, he gestures towards the books, “I enjoy to read. All topics, including medical journals and theories. Did you not study any such things while learning basic medicine?”

“I believe our medicinal ways differ from the vast majority of the world,” one corner of his smile jolts, “backwoods heathens that we are.”

“Oh yes, I’ve heard tale of the type. Tales such as a female omega who consumes her alpha mates for power,” he teases.

“What? I was merely a boy fascinated by the stories of a powerful omega, of course I believed them to be truths,” his smile twists to full brightness now and his eyes dance a little more, motioning with his head that Derek continue. 

But first he must amend Stiles’s idea that an omega need an alpha to be strong, “you said when you met my father that he was not what you expected?”

He hums a quiet response, eyes watching every move that Derek’s mouth makes.

“Did you scent him? Or speak to him long? Or use your instincts to decipher his personality beyond the rather stoic, broad-shouldered, muscular man that he is?”

“What are you getting at?”

“Did you take note of how strongly he smells of omega?”

“Your mother, yes,” his fingers are drumming at rapidly increasing speed where his hands are tangled in front of him, his legs beginning to twitch with excess energy as his mind starts hauling wind towards his final destination and his eyes light with disbelief, utter shock, and finally glee, “your father is an omega?” mouth dropping open, legs winning the struggle as they take off to pace the chambers, “your father is an omega. My gods Derek, your father is an omega!”

“Indeed.”

“But how? How is that even possible? It’s not! It is not possible for two omegas to reproduce! Derek! Someone along the way must have lied to you! Your father could not possibly be…”

“Stiles,” Derek interrupts him when his voice becomes pitched. The omega stops in his tracks, looking mildly ashamed of himself for accusing Benjamin of not being Derek’s father, but Derek simply finds the lad’s thought processes to be intriguing. To say the least. He pats the bed, but doesn’t expect Stiles to take a seat, “male omegas are not just baby receptacles. This is why I ask you about pleasuring yourself, this is one reason why I say you are lucky. Should you choose to have children, you are physically able to father children either by impregnating a female, or any omega. Or by being impregnated. Though instincts may be more likely to drive an omega into the submissive role, and the alpha into the dominance role, instincts don’t dictate every part of our life. Do they?”

“I suppose not,” his fingers have risen to his mouth, biting along his fingernails of his right hand. While the left taps an unruly rhythm on his leg. He’s watching Derek with a certain level of brand new understanding, “I never knew any male omegas. Hell, in our little village the only other omega was my mother and after she passed, there was nothing, well, no one to guide me I suppose. Scott’s mother, she is a wise and nurturing beta but there are certain things we never discussed. And maybe we would have if,” his voice trails off, eyes darting to the Sea beyond the window panes. He shakes his head, jolting into action to close the distance between himself and the bed, sitting with wide eyes and wonder, “so this talk of pleasure? Will you be,” his blush is soft pink, rising from his chest to his neck and scattering along his cheekbones.

“I can tell you about your pleasure zones,” Derek offers, “or I can show you. The choice is yours.”

His rum and honey soaked eyes rise to meet Derek’s, he scents the lad’s desire sudden and sharp and a whine rips itself from Stiles's chest before he can deny it’s existence. Derek chuckles, waiting for him to blame the bedsprings or the door hinges or possibly the creaking of the Triskelion as she rides the waves. 

Pink tongue darting out to wet his lips, uttering, “perhaps I shall require both.”

“Than I shall provide both.”

His expression softens, a potent and luscious mixture of contentment and lust rising off him. He admits, sheepishly, “perhaps it is only that I require hearing your voice while you, um,” ears tinting pink, searching his mind for the proper words. Derek doesn’t need the words, he knows the omega needs to anchor himself to Derek’s voice, scent, and presence to overpower the painful memories of his only other sexual encounters where his will was stolen and his desires destroyed.

“May I ask you why you believe yourself to be incapable of bearing children?” Derek opens his hand between them, Stiles takes it immediately, wrapping fingers through fingers. The warmth of him soft and soothing.

“I was in heat in the bilge, more than once. I was,” his eyes drop to his feet as his toes trace patterns on the floorboards. Free hand rising to motion towards the bites on his neck, his words quiet and broken, “bit, knotted, and submitted. But I never…”

“Forcibly,” Derek clears his throat, “those things were done forcibly. It is not a rare occurrence for an omega to reject breeding, whether of free will and suppressants or of body’s own protective measures, but if you did not bond through those bites then it’s rarer still for breeding to take. You’re not broken, Stiles. You’re nowhere near it,” Derek’s free hand rises from his lap, taking Stiles’s chin in his fingers to steer his gaze gently, “I want you to say it, please.”

“Say what?”

“That you are not broken. You are healing.”

His chin trembles, eyes filling with tears that he blinks back rapidly. He doesn’t release Derek’s eye contact, and doesn’t release his hand. His breath quakes, but he manages to whisper, “I’m not broken. I’m healing,” before he leans heavily into Derek’s chest. Hiding his face beneath Derek’s chin and loosing the tears he’d thus far been victorious over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay I know there are plenty of people who actually want the a/b/o genes to make sense in the case of real world genetic whateverness, but shhh..... in this world an o/o pairing can produce alpha children. Just go with it. We already know Talia has an alpha brother so maybe it's just some kind of family trait thing and it doesn't get passed along the xy. I am no scientist, simply a fanfic writer who only has maybe two braincells left for free space and I rub them together often to see if they can manage coherent thoughts :) It's been a long time since I had any kind of biology classes. And *shrugs* this is fiction and I wanted two omegas to be running the most successful island in this universe so deal with it.
> 
> Also, I hope it's not coming off as Derek having a fetish for male omegas, he's just read a lot and Stiles lived a pretty sheltered life in his tiny village so Derek is passing along some knowledge to help Stiles better understand his body and his capabilities since he has a pretty shitty view of himself still. But he's healing, damn it! Why did I go this route?! I hate sad Stiles!
> 
> Thanks friends :)


	14. If The Offer Stands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the most detailed BJ I've ever written...

If The Offer Stands

Stiles has no desire to seem overeager. So he paces the chamber slowly as he awaits Derek’s arrival. Chewing his thumbnail from time to time. Having cleaned his skin in the bathing basin already, but a layer of nervous sweat is slathering the palms of his hands and beading along his lower back.

He will not seem overeager and press his luck. He will not.

But when the door swings open and there stands Captain Derek Hale in all his glorious muscles and thick hair and dark brows with light eyes beneath, overeager is a worry long past. Stiles’s body brings him quickly over to stand in front of the man, grasping his cheeks to draw him to his lips, pressing kisses into his chuckle. He’s never just attacked the captain upon his entrance, normally he waits until he’s had time to undress and clean himself a bit. Some nights he doesn’t pounce him at all. They simply read or speak with one another. 

The problem here is this: Derek has been telling Stiles there is time. They have time. Well, Stiles is tired of waiting. And he had to go and offer to suck his dick the previous night, so yes, it has been on Stiles’s mind all day. He’s a young man! Of course it has been on his mind! No one has ever made that offer! Men don’t do such things with omegas. Or at least not as far as Stiles has understood of sex, but he’s beginning to think that perhaps his opinions have been misconceptions when it comes to Derek Hale. 

His fingers slip between strands of his thick braid, cupping the back of his head to keep him close. Close enough that he won’t have to look at the man’s eyes when he wonders, bravely, with a very steady voice of course, “the offer you made last night?” he absolutely does not rock on his heels or emit any odors of nervousness either.

Derek’s hands land on his lower back, drawing him near. His voice rumbles a simple acknowledgement, echoing through his chest and starting Stiles’s already fluttering heart into a mad fluttering mess.

“Don’t make me ask,” he can feel a flush rising up his cheeks, and his chest.

“Perhaps if you cannot speak the words then you are not ready for the act,” Derek suggests.

Stiles squirms, making certain his grip is tight enough on Derek that he will have to shake his hand off his head to draw back any further. At least this way if he must speak it, then he will be able to hide his flush in Derek’s neck. It’s possible that when he opens his mouth, a rather embarrassing whine escapes him.

Derek chuckles, “are you wondering if the offer still stands?” his hands smoothing the length of Stiles’s back. One of them slipping across his shoulder, taking a light hold on his jaw.

There goes the plan to hide in his neck. The gentle request for eye contact cannot be denied. The light, soft hues of him are too lovely, too generous, and too intense to feel an ounce of shame in offering, “I believe that sucking my cock would prove to be a valuable and pleasurable experience for me. And perhaps for us both,” his bottom lip gets tucked into his teeth as Derek’s face goes soft, his gaze dropping to Stiles’s mouth. 

A smile tugs at the corners of his lips, “I believe the only way we shall find out is to give it a try.”

“Aye,” it exits in a breathy sigh, feeling Derek’s hands release their hold on him and hearing his belt and weapons hit the deck. He’d like to promise that he’ll do the same, that he’ll reciprocate in whatever way possible to satisfy Derek’s desires, but he’s uncertain of such a promise so he keeps his mouth shut. Mostly shut, he wonders, “is there a code of conduct I must be made aware of?” as Derek’s hands return to his lower back.

Leaning in, pressing gentle kisses to lips, trailing over his cheek, landing for a long moment in the juncture of his ear and jaw. Long enough to make his head fall back and a moan part his lips as tingles spread from his neck down his stomach, chest, settling in his groin. Pressing closer to Derek’s body, finding the spike of lust in his scent as he grinds against him. His whisper stirs the hairs on the back of Stiles’s neck, “nay, not on my account. All I ask is for you to tell me if you need me to stop.”

Anticipation raging hot through his core, he nods and nearly shouts his surprise at Derek heaving him off the floor with his hands on his ass. Stiles’s body immediately reacts by wrapping legs ‘round the captain’s hips, arms tightening around his shoulders and the kisses deepening tenfold. The man’s mouth is a wonder, the gentle heat of him, the tender prods of his tongue and the eager openness to Stiles’s explorations. He allows Stiles the lead so easily now that he’s come to have learned the jig. He doesn’t guffaw when he makes a misstep, when their teeth clack together hard enough to wince. He doesn’t even allow it to break the contact, only slides a soothing hand through his hair proving that everything he does is worth doing. Proving that no matter his wants, Derek will provide. 

He takes the steps quickly, the strength in his muscles felt under the hooks of Stiles’s legs wrapped ‘round him. Yearning and desire have jolted through him, lighting up every part of his body, an eagerly hard cock and the heat of his omega nature dampening his under britches already. 

He keeps himself tight against Derek’s body as the man bends over the bed, making certain he knows that Stiles wants him covering him for a moment, kissing and touching his nerves away. He acquiesces to the silent demand, layering his body over Stiles to spread out on the bedding. Pressing kisses to his lips, deep aching kisses that Stiles is certain to remember long after they’re gone. His hands sliding down his ribs, over his blouse, flattening over his hips and moving slowly inward to trace the bulge of his hard cock through the fabric of his breeches. 

A choked gasp exits Stiles’s lips and Derek moves to kiss at his jaw, neck. Hands gripping the hem of his shirt, removing it slowly when Stiles leans up to give him the space. His mouth dips to his chest, taking a torturously slow route to his nipple. His tongue darting out to flick at it, shooting a surge of desire through Stiles’s core that Derek hums his approval over before flattening his tongue and laving over the target once more. 

Stiles’s fingers go tight in the bedding, gripping as his body writhes. The heat of Derek over him, still reaching out through the space between them that he can feel like soft flames of a glowing fire in the hearth. The air in the chambers has grown cooler the further north they travel, still nowhere near what Stiles is used to for a Winter’s grip. 

A whine rips itself from his chest when Derek leans up, away from him. His eyes darting open to find him. Kneeling now between Stiles’s knees, a look of question on his face, eyes dropping to his breeches.

“Yes,” Stiles provides to the unspoken query.

Derek’s smile is tender, his eyes aglow with the reflections of the dancing lamplight. His gaze leaving a smoldering trail over every inch of Stiles’s bare flesh. Taking in every line of him, never unnerved by the bite scars. Leaning forward and down to trail his bristled beard and soft lips over his skin as it becomes exposed. Taking open his breeches, hands large and tender moving the fabric aside. 

For as much as Derek’s adoration is clear on his face, Stiles doesn’t feel nearly as exposed as he should. Even as a rush of cool air flows over the head of his cock, allowing a shiver to chase up his spine and his mind to come to terms with further exposure of his most private bits.

Derek’s warm lips touching hesitantly over the tip of his cock more than make up for the cool rush of air from a moment ago. A groan escapes him, his hands lifting from the bedding to land on the hard muscled shoulders through the shirt of the man who’s face is buried in his groin now. Nosing along the dip between his leg and pelvis as he drags his breeches down further. Stiles lifts his rump, giving him the space, nodding at him when his eyes rise, traveling over the length of bare skin between them with a type of reverence that Stiles has never seen. He shudders as the eye contact lingers, nodding again, his legs coming up to peel his breeches the rest of the way off, giving Derek no room for second guesses. 

A deep breath quavers slightly, his hands remaining on Derek’s shoulders, keeping himself grounded and here. Derek lowers himself once more. His lips stirring embers in Stiles’s gut as he tracks kisses over his thighs, hands beginning the trek over his abdomen, palms flat over his ribs as his fingers graze Stiles’s nipples again. 

Stiles’s mouth falls open, his eyes forcing themselves to roll shut as the man’s lips, closed but wetted, slide up the length of his cock. Of course, the easiest way to gain pleasure when it must be taken, is to strip his cock with his hand until he’s reached orgasm. He’s never been one to slow it down, take the time to explore his own body. He’s never fingered himself, or even acknowledged the omega part of his body that’s been so used and destroyed. He’s never wanted to acknowledge it, even before then. So this feeling now, the feeling of heat and throbbing in his channel as Derek has not even touched it, nor exposed it to the air. ’Tis simply his body’s response to the stimulation Derek is offering. And what stimulation it is!

His lips close over the head of Stiles’s cock, tongue darting out to flick at the pre-cum damp tip. His fingers are pressing gently into his nipples, rolling the pads of his fingers over them in slow rhythms matching the pressures of his lips on Stiles’s cock. His cock twitches and he presses his own fingers deeper into Derek’s arms. Opening his eyes, tilting his head to get an image for himself to go along with this feeling. This feeling of standing on the ledge of a cliff as the first snowfall of the year comes slow and dances in shimmering patterns of whites and light blues around him and down to the Sea below. The Sea that is roiled up with cold water crashing ashore, but up on the ledge he is safe and yearning to jump. Yearning to feel that rush of falling overtaking his body, his stomach lurching with it as he takes a deep breath, pushing his feet into the ground beneath him. 

His fingers rise from Derek’s shoulder to his head, tangling his braid around his hand. Derek’s eyes rise, meeting Stiles’s as he sinks further down his cock, taking the whole of him down his throat and hollowing his cheeks.

“My gods,” he mutters at the sight. ’Tis never a sight he thought he’d see. Not after everything.

Derek’s right hand falls away from his nipple, trailing over his ribs, landing on the knob of his pelvis for a moment while his elbow nudges at his thigh. His brows risen in question as his mouth has come to a halt. 

Stiles moves his leg open. Unsure of where he’s planing to explore, but knowing that whatever Derek chooses to map out, he’s in safe hands. Derek will hear him if he says to stop, he will feel it spike in his pulse, and he will scent sour or bitter notes should they rise. But they haven’t. Stiles is ready, Stiles trusts him. With whatever he should choose. 

His head bobs, mouth, tongue, heat, slick with spit and sinfully slow. His hand, tips of his fingers tracing the line of Stiles’s groin, trailing his balls, mapping out every wrinkle with his fingertips before cupping them gently. There is a niggling want for the man to keep moving, to map out his rim, to slide a finger into his heat and trail his slick across his channel. But there is also relief at the lack of it. Yes, Stiles is very certain of where he is and who he is with, and he is very confident that his trust in this man will never come back to bite him (literally or figuratively), but there is still something inside of him that despises his omega nature. That wants no one ever to touch him there, no one ever to be inside him, no one ever to desire it. 

His thoughts are quickly derailed, drawn back to his cock as Derek’s mouth slides up and down. Back to his balls as Derek tenderly rolls them in slow massaging motions. His fingertips dug into Derek’s arm, and one of the man’s hands tracing a line of goosebumps up his torso, finding the nub of his nipple to draw a calloused finger over it, dragging a moan out of Stiles’s mouth that he’s never heard himself make before. ’Tis no wonder people think male omegas to be wanton beasts, he is a mess of choked sobs, half-grunted moans, sweat, slick that is seeping into the bedding by now, leaking cum as Derek sinks his mouth all the way to the base of his cock. An exhale through his nose pricks the hairs along his lower abdomen and entire body twists as Derek swallows with his cock still in this throat! 

One unruly hand rises from his shoulder, just to slap down again hard, hard enough that if Stiles could feel it stinging his own hand through the haze of the intense pleasure short-circuiting his system, he’d most likely have to fight the instinct to cower. But he’s so pleasure deaf and blind that he simply does it again. This time the pressure of Derek’s mouth, the insistence of his tongue along the tip of Stiles’s dick as he inhales then sinks back down again, his hand clenching nearly too hard around his balls, and his fingers pinching slightly at his nipple are more than enough to send him tumbling through that passageway that he’s always been equally ashamed of and thrilled by. This time there is no shame, this time there is a man who is eagerly swallowing his cum as the scent of his body’s slick is so thick it’s undeniable, the feel of it trailing down the backs of his thighs and with Derek so close but not touching him, with Derek right there being inundated by wet omega fraught with desire and doused in pleasure, an alpha who could simply move just a little bit, just a tiny distance between them and he’s not. He’s not taking advantage. He is still fully clad and he is still touching and soothing Stiles’s overheated skin, he is rubbing his lips along the spent tip of Stiles’s cock, getting every single last drop as his hands slide up his sides, and back down, palms flat and warm. The gentleness of him a strict contrast to the rough texture of his skin.

Stiles gasps, his eyes focusing slowly on the top of Derek’s head as he moves up, leaving a kiss trail along his route. Nuzzling at his neck, settling his body only partially overtop of Stiles’s, keeping his pelvis away. Senses slowly coming back into place, Stiles can hear the beating of his own heart in his ears, loud whooshing. He can find that same rhythm in Derek’s chest when he settles with his elbows tucked into Stiles’s ribs. His lips are cresting the curve of Stiles’s chin when he stops to linger over his face, watching him intently as he blinks in attempt to gain clarity. He feels as though he’s walking through a dream. His hands coming back into his subconscious, knowing they are anchored on the man’s back. He feels his fingers pick at the cotton, and hears himself wonder from some distant place, “why is this still on?”

Derek’s mouth rises with a soft smile before pressing lips to lips. Languorously opening, stroking tongues and the taste of Stiles lingering on Derek’s makes him whine something he’ll deny later. But for now, Derek’s hand is stroking knuckles along his jaw, sliding behind his ear to cup his head as though the pillow is not doing a passable job already. Nudging Stiles’s nose with his own when he draws back, eyes locked onto Stiles’s when he opens them, picking with his fingers at the blouse once more. Words escaping him as he drifts along through a stream of steady rumbles that Derek is producing against him. Possibly if the man would remove his shirt, Stiles could climb into his ribcage and live in that comfort, but he’s being awfully stubborn about staying clad even as Stiles’s fingers remain busy tugging lazily at the cotton. 

Derek’s free hand slips under his back, spreading fingers wide over the small of it, pinned now between Stiles and the bed, drawing him that much closer. If Stiles could feel his entire body yet, he’d coax Derek to lie between his legs and at least rub against him until he released his pleasure. It would almost be fair. He’s only remotely aware of Derek’s prodding and rolling until they are tangled together in the bed, until Derek is tucked against Stiles’s back and the realization of Derek’s orgasm finally dawns on him. With the damp spot in the front of his breeches as he presses against Stiles, and the scent wafts up towards him now that he’s no longer buried in the man’s kisses and nuzzles. 

A strange sense of accomplishment echoes inside him, quite likely it is the damn omega nature again, able to let go of consciousness knowing that his mate has been satisfied as well. Satisfied through that! Imagine! 

Stiles reaches for Derek’s hand, drawing his arm tighter around his body. He’d like to voice his distaste for the man’s clothing still being between them, but he’s finding it rather hard right now to voice anything at all. Tangling his fingers through Derek’s, bringing their hands to rest in front of his face to scent his wrist, targeting his emotions only. Pride blooms in his chest when all he can decipher is content. Turning his head rather abruptly to seize Derek’s lips before he can give fully into sleep nudging at the edge of his brain and body. He gathers the last of his energy to kiss him properly. If his voice will fail him, then the kiss won’t. Kissing his appreciation and his awe against the bristle of his beard, against the softness of his lips, against the warmth of his tongue. Kissing until that last reserve of energy is used up and his entire body is sinking quickly into the bed as though it was quicksand. Letting himself fall into the rumbles of Derek’s chest and the overwhelming comfort of knowing he’s safe here, he is treasured here, and he is possibly loved here.


	15. We've Come All This Way

We’ve Come All This Way

Derek waits until Stiles is sleeping soundly before he untangles himself from the web they’ve created in the bedding. Tucking a thin blanket around the lad to keep the heat in and allow him to feel less exposed should he wake while Derek is cleaning himself up. He takes a moment to appreciate the long, lean curves of him in his lax state of sleep. The rhythm of his breathing, calm and even. And the soft, sweet scents of his sleep. He is sated and at ease in his own skin, a thing Derek wasn’t certain he’d ever see. He allowed Derek the pleasure of providing for him, and traveling places on his body that no one has travelled with a loving hand before. 

Trailing a hand over his smooth cheek, pressing a kiss to his forehead. He doesn’t stir, for which Derek is grateful. 

Taking his time cleaning himself, pulling on a pair of fresh bedclothes and settling back in against the lad’s back. He is starting to look less like a bag of bones, but Derek is certain he will never be soft and round. He lies atop the blanket he covered Stiles with, keeping a double layer between them. Even now it feels as though the extra precautions are necessary. He has no desire for the nude omega to wake in a panic, thinking he’s elsewhere, or he’s vulnerable to attack. 

Immediately upon folding his arm over Stiles’s chest, he responds by taking his wrist to pull him closer, tighter into a protective arc without even stirring. Derek sinks into it handsomely, allowing himself this. This moment. When everything is calm. When the sleeping body in his arms is invading every sense he possesses. He allows himself this. Knowing it will too soon be over.

——————

The bustling village square stinks of too many bodies and too many goods for sale and too many strangers. Derek’s senses on high alert, his crew filtering through the crowd giving him slight comfort. 

Upon delivering their final passengers ashore, the rich family of one of the previous prisoners insisted on sheltering Derek and his omega for the night. Though he’d rather try his luck at the inn or sleep aboard the Triskelion, it seems it would be rude to deny. Part of the crew has taken the opportunity to crack Jenny’s teacup in this city where the options be many. While the others have been enjoying the atmosphere of the largest city many of them have seen, Derek and Stiles are simply attempting to pass time before supper when they are expected at the manor. 

Derek detests things like this. Wining and dining with strangers, he’d prefer a firm handshake and a simple spoken word of thanks rather than a show of gratitude. He’s never been much of one for payment either. He’d rather keep to himself and do his job. He may try to fool himself into believing that he’d never be happy living his entire life on the Sea, but every time he’s ashore for too long, he’s quite convinced that he’ll never be happy becoming a landlubber either. 

“You seem very buried in the depths of your mind,” Stiles tugs on his blouse sleeve to get his attention. 

His gaze shifts over to the lad beside him, he’s been generally staying close to Derek’s side, taking hold of his wrist every now and again to remind him of his presence. Though it isn’t like he could forget. A tight lipped smile is all he finds himself capable of, “the bustle I suppose is,” his voice trails off when the din of the crowd swallows it.

Stiles has seemed inextricably calm given the circumstances. Each time he has leaned a little closer to gather his scent, he’s been nervous certainly, but not overwhelmingly so considering the vastness of this market. And the unfamiliarity of it all.

“Quite possibly we should return to the Harbor and wait aboard the Triskelion,” he offers to the unfinished statement Derek made. His face is smooth, eyes hopeful, lip tucked into his teeth as he waits Derek’s response. 

“Certainly Boyd, Erica and Isaac are capable of gathering the proper supplies,” when his hand swings with his stride, it’s gripped quickly in the grasp of Stiles’s long fingers. Released again just as easily, but the contact lingering long after it’s gone. The warmth of it and the silent assurance. 

They must navigate the throng of the crowd in order to exit the market and make headway back to the harbor. The mass of moving people seems to swallow them whole, making Derek’s pulse jump. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He blames it on his disapproval of crowds, but he scolds himself immediately for downplaying his instincts when he turns at the edge of the square only to realize that Stiles is no longer beside him.

He clenches his hand around air, wondering why he hadn’t grasped when he had the chance. He should never have allowed the lad out of his sight, he should never have allowed him out of his reach. His heart thumps hard and painful against his ribs, eyes scanning the crowd for the vision of his own hat among them. Fighting panic that is rapidly rising, knowing it will blind him if he cannot control it, knowing it will make rage become uncontainable as it begins to burn through his core. His grip lands on his cutlass and he begins pushing through the crowd to get to higher ground. Climbing aboard a wagon, much to the chagrin of the owner, scanning over the square as rapidly as he’s able. Once, twice, and the third sweep reveals Stiles in the middle of the moving sea of people.

Derek attempts to scent the air, only finding the market and the odors of too many bodies between him and the lad to narrow it. He cannot see the omega’s face to gauge his emotions either. The shade of his damn hat too much. He can see Boyd nearer the omega than he is himself. But there seems to be no visible danger. If he stays where he is, Derek can reach him without cause for concern. Alas, the lad's head is on a swivel, his panic levels rising judging by his motions as he scans and cannot find a familiar face.

Derek whistles, one he knows at the very least his crew will recognize, but he is uncertain of whether Stiles will. The lad has no response to it. 

“Blimey,” Derek curses under his breath, jumping off the wagon to shoulder his way through the crowd. It seems to ebb and sway around him, every time he gathers sight of Stiles, it is blocked out once again. He is moving in jerky, uncertain motions and the closer Derek gets to him, the more his scent becomes clear. Panic and fear overriding the putrid stench of this market. Derek hears himself growl, deep and resonating. A handful of people move aside at his warning. But one brute of an alpha in particular takes note of the scene, said brute being an obstacle between Derek and Stiles. Derek keeps his body language from pointing out fearful omega in the crowd but the alpha is near enough now to scent him. 

This could end two ways. With the alpha being a human first and foremost, simply taking Stiles’s arm and assuring him he’s safe. Or this alpha could be the scourge that feeds into the preconceived notions the omega already has. 

Derek hopes for the first option. Considering the latter will end in blood spilled, and that blood will not be his own. Nor his omega’s. 

It happens quickly, as these things that are out of control always do, the brute grabbing Stiles by the arm. Derek close enough now to hear his voice, rumbling deep and demanding, using the force of his alpha to assert unearned power over the omega, “come lad,” his fingers white-knuckled and imprinting themselves into Stiles’s flesh. Derek growls once more, this time louder, more commanding. Enough to make the last of the crowd between him and Stiles part. The brute is dragging Stiles now, leaning close to his ear to whisper, “bad little slut, out here unbonded and stinking like sex,” which is a lie, the lad smells only of fear, “practically begging any strange alpha to stake his claim,” he leans in now, rubbing his face along Stiles’s jaw.

The soft whine that pierces Derek’s eardrums is enough to jolt him into action. In a motion smoother than breathing, he’s unsheathed his cutlass, stepped to the strange alpha’s back and pressed the blade to his throat, whispering rough and demanding, “release the lad at once and I shall spare your life,” through clenched teeth.

The alpha growls, taking a moment to weigh his options. Taking note of Boyd stepping towards him on the other side of the parted crowd, hand on his belt. Derek cannot be bothered with scanning the crowd to see if this brute has any brethren in the throng. Boyd flashes him two fingers along his dagger, having done the scouting for him. Knowing Isaac and Erica and perhaps Argent are lurking, Derek has the numbers and the rage on his side. He pulls the blade tighter until it nicks the man’s neck and the scent of blood fills his nostrils. 

Stiles takes the opportunity to wrench himself free of the brute’s grasp, in turning he removes Derek’s dagger from his belt and raises it to the alpha’s chin. His eyes wild, and his cheeks flushed. The scent of him turned from fearful to enraged, the desire for vengeance strong and thick. His nostrils flair as he looks the brute’s face over, taking in his every feature. 

Derek withdraws his own blade, being certain to leave a trail of red blood across his neck. Knowing it is nowhere near a mortal wound, but it is enough to leave a mark. The mark of an overly aggressive and thoughtless alpha. 

“’Tis your choice,” he concedes to Stiles, “make it wisely.”

His darkened eyes land on Derek’s only briefly, focusing on the brute that he has pinned with the point of Derek’s dagger. He wonders to himself how well trained the lad is in arms. The way he’s holding the weapon suggests it is not the first time he’s held one, or perhaps has only studied by watching. Either way, his scent and the gleam in his eye makes it clear that if his intention is to kill, then he will accomplish that. 

Stiles holds the blade steady, while his expression fills with thought. A thing Derek is relieved to see. Knowing he is weighing his options. He is far too young to have blood on his hands. With any luck, he will realize such. 

His mouth twitches in one corner before he takes a deep breath and speaks through gritted teeth, “you are not worth my time, effort, or emotion. And certainly not my fear,” he snorts, eyeing the alpha from head to toe, pulling back on the blade, enough to allow the brute some room to move forward. If he makes motions towards the omega, Derek will rip his throat out. He makes no such moves, “walk away now,” Stiles demands. 

The alpha hesitates only long enough to scan the crowd. Boyd takes another step forward. As do Isaac and Erica. From the corner of his eye, Derek detects the glint of an arrowhead reflecting the midday’s sun from the window opening across the square. His crew is sound. Even his servants are loyal. He believes Stiles would have been in good hands even if he hadn’t been able to reach him in time, someone else in his crew would have. Perhaps if he armed the lad properly, he’d have been able to save himself. A large blunder on Derek’s part, assuming Stiles would be safely guarded without giving him the means to protect himself instead.

He growls low when the alpha takes a step, showing that he supports the decision of the omega but prodding the brute to move faster, and further away.

Boyd calls out to disperse the gaping crowd, announcing there is no show here, nothing to be concerned of. Stiles won’t meet Derek’s eyes, sliding the dagger back into his belt, his hands shaking now that the adrenaline has begun to wear off. Derek offers his arm, knowing the lad needs some privacy and a safe space to work through his emotions. 

His hand slips into Derek’s elbow, fingers cold and filmed with sweat. He follows Derek’s lead, all the while Derek fights back the anger at himself for not teaching the lad proper self defense, for not arming him thusly. For not keeping him close, for allowing the gap in his judgement, for allowing the alpha the opportunity. Seething anger under his skin, attempting to swallow it down as he walks the planks of the dock to the Triskelion. Heaving himself aboard with Stiles in front of him, shooing him to their chambers without so much as a word or passing eye contact afforded. 

Derek is certain that the scent of rage and frustration are wafting off him in powerful waves, he’s certain they are affecting the omega, but he’s no means to control it. This situation never should have occurred. He should have been more vigilant, he should have been twelve steps ahead of a scenario like this. He should have properly trained the lad in arms, he’s been too used to the safety of Beacon Harbor, he’s been too used to omegas being treated as equals in the town in which he spends the most time upon land. 

He yanks off his weapons belt, running a frustrated hand through his hair. Muscles twitching and rage playing tricks on his vision. He hears Stiles whimper, sees the lad retreating to a dark corner. 

“’Tis not your fault,” he hears himself grit, pacing the floorboards now, “’twas mine. I was daft to think there’d not be repercussions for bringing you unbonded through a busy market in a land where omegas are still deemed to be property instead of humans. Gods, this world! These moronic alphas who declare themselves allowed to take whatever they want. Giving all us others a bad reputation. Pretending they have no means to control their urges,” he slams a hand down on the table, feeling it reverberate through the room and straight through Stiles’s core, making the lad’s knees give out as he sinks to the floor. 

Derek’s eyes dart over to meet his in the dimness of the cabin, they are aimed at the floor, and it quickly sinks in that he is comporting himself in no better a manner than those beasts that have pricked his frustration. By not controlling his rage, but letting it affect the sensitivity of an omega. He takes a deep breath, forcing it in through his nose, out through his mouth. Attempting to clear his thoughts of the man’s hand clamped down on Stiles’s arm. Both of Derek’s now are white-knuckled, gripping the table as he gathers his wits. 

“Stiles,” his voice is much too rough even still. The stubborn omega cocks his head, his nature dictating that he look, that he listen, that he obey an alpha command. But his personality fighting that instinct, and his personality winning. 

Derek finds a well of pride taking over his chest, knowing that even with a setback as today, Stiles will still not be broken of his will. He is surprised, however, when Stiles shakes his head to himself, rises quickly to his feet, stalks over to Derek and shoves him. Shoves him! Derek can’t stifle the smile that quirks his lips at the action, quickly wiping it off when Stiles’s face rises to look at him. Eyes burning with anger, announcing sharply and surely, “not your fault either! You cannot control this entire world, Captain. You responded precisely how you should have. So what? I’m a slutty little omega showing off my unbonded ass to a crowd of strangers in a strange place, I’m selfish and wanted to see the city, I’m naive in thinking I’m allowed to do the simple things that alphas and betas are allowed to do without coming to harm. I’m too damn daft and stubborn to realize ’tis simply not how the world works? I had to tempt fate and alphas more than once before I could learn my valuable lesson? I had to…”

“Stop,” his hands dart up from his sides, taking Stiles’s elbows in a firm but gentle grip, “Stiles you should be able to enter the market, and see the city, and sail the seas and whatever else your heart should desire without having to fear for your safety, and this…”

“That’s not how the world works!” his eyes are alive with dancing flames of anger and passion, his voice clear, body shaking ever so slightly, “you may want it that way, and I may want it that way, and your mother and father may have made it that way in Beacon Harbor but you and I of all people should know better! You and I should have,” his voice cracks now, eyes dropping to Derek’s chest, finding strength to finish that sentence even as his tone wobbles, “we should just bond, you should claim me. I am fooling myself in thinking I can return home like this,” his hand flits up and skitters along his neck and collarbone, “I am fooling myself in thinking I can be a lawman, like my father, as an omega. Or a medicine man. Jobs fit for respectable and bonded omegas are even out of reach now. So perhaps,” his eyes track up once more, meeting Derek’s and holding, “perhaps, if you are willing…”

“No,” Derek forces his voice to remain soft, steady. He forces the sour, bitter taste from his mouth at the idea, “I will not stake a claim Stiles. It would not bond at this stage, not if you’re only offering because you want some semblance of tradition, a protection. Not if you don’t love me,” he adds the last part softly, attempting to keep the hope from his voice, from his eyes, and from his scent.

Stiles’s lip quivers, his nostrils flare as he takes a deep, steadying breath, “I will not make the offer again Captain. My delicate constitution will not survive another rejection.”

“Please don’t speak in such a manner,” his voice barely a whisper. It’s possible the lad couldn’t stand another rejection, it’s possible Derek couldn’t. But what’s certain is that he cannot stand when the boy speaks so harshly against himself. Hating his nature and feeling trapped by it, trapped in the cage that society built for omegas like him, “may I ask you something?”

He shakes out of Derek’s grip, one that Derek is more than willing to release, takes the strides over to the bed to sit on the edge of it. Leaning his face to his hands, a half cocked nod is his only response.

“Have you hated your omega status from the moment you presented?”

His fingers part, showing his eyes narrowed and focused solely on Derek. Skeptical of how honestly he should answer, and quite possibly wondering why the change of topic. He heaves a sigh after studying Derek’s expression for a long, silent moment, then straightens his shoulders and drops his hands to his knees, “not from the very start, no. I suppose at first I was excited, I allowed myself to believe the silly young person’s dreams of happiness and possibly of a home full of love and children. I even allowed myself to believe that I would fall for the alpha who claimed me, that we’d have a large family. That I’d enjoy,” his voice trails off now and he clears his throat, a pink flush creeping into his snow white cheeks, “sex,” he finishes his sentence with his eyes pinned to Derek’s throat, “but then with the death of my mother and,” he shrugs, “I guess just somewhere along the way I became more aware of how omegas are treated, how we are viewed and I wanted to hide that. I wanted to be a man strong enough to no longer need anyone,” he’s to his feet quickly, pacing the floor, and running his hands through his hair, “my father tried, and I still love him. I miss him. But I understand why he thought himself incapable of finishing my raising. I understand why he thought Melissa would be a better fit for me. I understand it. But I suppose it made me wary of relying on anyone,” his voice is breathy, but the stress odors rising from him are not overpowering, “and since omegas are,” his hand motions through the open space in front of him, “dependent upon…”

“No one,” Derek finishes for him.

“Yes, well, not everywhere is like Beacon Harbor is it? Not everyone in this world has such modern and forward thinking as your family, do they?”

“No. They don’t,” Derek snags his wrist when he paces by, stopping him in his tracks and catching his eye contact, “come back with me then.”

“To Beacon Harbor?”

“Aye.”

“As your concubine?”

“Nay,” Derek snorts it, “as a free man. To seek education. Or trade. To live the way any alpha, beta, or omega should have the opportunity to live. To make your free choices. To depend upon no one but yourself. And should you so choose, seek a proper mate someday. And start a family. And should you so choose, remain yours and yours alone. Without a family. Stiles, the possibilities for you are endless,” he can feel his hopes starting to rise even if the lad is looking more and more skeptical at every word.

“And you?” he wonders.

“What of me?”

“What will you be doing with your time whilst I seek education and freedom?”

Releasing his hold on Stiles’s wrist, bringing his fingers into his beard to stroke his chin, “well I suppose a man can only pirate the pirates for so long,” he sighs, “but I’ll never be a landlubber. Regardless,” he flips his hand in the air between them as though he is flicking his future away as something unimportant when in all reality he has spent so much of his youth chasing after revenge that he’s not had the luxury of deeply considering a future until most recently with Deucalion and his rapscallions taken care of. He’s nothing left to chase, “you’re young. You have time.”

“But we’ve come all this way,” his voice is soft, leaving Derek to wonder if he’s speaking of them and only them. Or he’s speaking of the distance sailed.

“I’ve never been as far north as your village. Perhaps I shall enjoy a change of scenery while I await your decision.”

“Not with that pitiful excuse for a coat,” Stiles snorts at him, a slight smile toying at the corners of his sinful lips.

A smile that Derek feels a need to wipe off his face, but first, “may I kiss you?”

“My gods Derek, your respect is sweet and appreciated and all, but…” Stiles surges forward, pressing his lips to Derek’s eagerly, kissing away any more words that could have possibly passed between them, kissing away any uneasy feelings still lingering in the chamber, and kissing away their prior supper engagement as well.


	16. Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first section contains a little more details to the Argent's attack and fire-starting and more insight into the chase of the Alphas. Nothing too graphic. Finally, words from the captain himself... (and hopefully it's making sense but the next chapter will give a little more from Derek's POV with some thoughts on the subjects).

Hope

Under his hand he can feel the steady beat of Derek’s heart. Against the top of his head is the warm breeze of his exhales. Lying tenderly around his arm, covering the bruises from the alpha in the market, is his hand. 

Feeling as though their journey together could quickly come to an end, he’s unwilling to fall asleep just yet. Wanting Derek to speak the words that seem to be on the tip of his tongue. But not wanting to pry. He taps his fingers on his chest, tangling some of his chest hair and waiting. Silently. Stiles can be good at silence. Sometimes.

They must have travelled the entirety of the worlds, circumnavigated it, by the time he draws in a deep breath, moving Stiles’s head with it, and speaks quietly, “the Argents were interlopers. Meaning they were doing unauthorized trade under the guise of supplying Beacon Harbor. Gerard, Victoria, and Kate. Gerard had made himself a home on the island, after pretending to be an ally to my mother. He was the go-between for her and France for a long time. He gained her trust and settled on the island, Victoria then took the helm. Or so it seemed. She was simply a front for what Gerard and Kate were doing behind our backs. The omegas that were still being sent to the mainland for education and proper training, they were promised safe passage by Kate and her crew, they called themselves the Berserkers as they would go berserk in order to protect their passengers, it was told. It was,” his voice shakes, hand absently beginning to stroke Stiles’s arm, “a lie. She was simply trading them, sailing them out of the Harbor to pass them off to Deucalion and the Demon Wolf. There was never a steady amount of omegas that needed passage, but even one, even a single young person was more than enough. They got away with it for years before it came to my mother’s attention, they’d even worked out a system with a headmistress at an omega university on the mainland. Jennifer Blake was her name, she would oft times send my mother letters, updating her on the omegas that were under her care. When in all reality they had been broken by the Alpha Brotherhood and brought to the Americas, sold into slavery,” he turns suddenly, sinking his lips and nose into Stiles’s hair.

Stiles tracks a finger across his chest, following the dips and curves of his muscles, over his shoulder and down his arm to slot his hand into the captain’s. Silently urging him to continue.

“It was my uncle Peter who first found evidence of this. ’Twas why they burned the estate. Peter had gathered the proper evidence, had presented it to my mother and they were going to France with it. They were attempting to do so without the Argents catching wind of such beforehand, wanting the proper channels to be taken. To have their country of origin and the original pact between Beacon Harbor and France to be honored. But the Argents acted first. It ended in the loss of so much life,” his voice shakes and his body shudders. Stiles edges ever closer, wanting the man to be certain he is here, he is not in the middle of that battle anymore. 

Derek’s hand drops from Stiles’s arm, slipping down to his lower back, flattening out and pressing, “I was away at the Navy. When I returned home, it was all so different than the place I had left. I decided immediately that I’d stay, I’d sign the Letter of Marque and belong to my mother’s harbor and the Sea rather than the Navy. Signing the Letter of Marque gives me amnesty from piracy laws as long as my plunders are from an enemy nation. Beacon Harbor being in France’s good graces, the Letter has been recognized thus far by France though many of my journeys have been simply for supplies, for trading of goods. And as I aforementioned, signing the Letter gave me the freedom of choosing my own crew, of having my family and my mate aboard. ’Twas a mistake to take them along,” his voice grows ever more quiet, but remains steady, “had I left them on the island, had I followed my gut and made them wait while I gave chase to the Demon Wolf, they’d still be alive. Most likely. Let it be said that though Deucalion was a horrid person, he was a great and experienced captain. I gave chase, but he outmaneuvered me. He made it look like child’s play,” speaking through gritted teeth now, Stiles can feel his anger seething and palpable in the air around them.

He takes a moment, gathering deep breaths of the scent of Stiles’s hair before he can continue, “we were likely to be sunk, already lost half my crew, including my brother Nathan. Satomi was my quartermaster at the time, a strong alpha woman who had seen many a battle in the Sea, and she’d never been beaten. It was her nod of surrender that made my decision easier. Thinking they’d most likely follow the code of conduct. They’d not spare us all, we knew. But we had offers from Beacon Harbor, and from France herself. Offers that would still make the bulk of them prisoners or servants, but their lives would be spared if they’d turn themselves in. Alas, Deucalion was in no mood to negotiate. He made a bloody mess of even more of my crew after he’d boarded and we’d surrendered. In the midst of the battle, I’d given Paige, Cora, and Lucas the order to hide in the bilge. I bargained, attempted to. My life for theirs when the Alpha Brotherhood found them, dragged them out to the deck.”

Stiles can smell the salt of tears, he can hear the thickness in Derek’s voice. Bringing his hand towards his lips, breathing in softly, gathering their mingled scents. Stiles whimpers, he cannot control it, nudging his forehead against Derek’s jaw until the man tilts his head and allows eye contact. His eyes are swimming with tears he has not loosed, glimmering in the light of the candle lamps. Squeezing his fingers tight before he releases them, only to slide a hand across his cheek, through his beard, cupping his jaw. Adjusting his body until he’s half overtop the captain, shielding him like a heavy blanket, twisting legs into an intricate weave, propping both elbows beside his ribs and hovering over his face for a long moment. All attempts to provide comfort, silent understanding that he can stop whenever he wants, that he can share only the parts he’s capable of finding words for. That Stiles can understand and read the rest on his own. Should he choose to continue, Stiles is listening. Without judgment. Without disgust. Knowing that Derek did all he could, everything within his power. 

“They rigged Cora and Lucas to the base of the mainmast. Every one of them making promises to destroy them both. The bond between siblings strong enough that every time they’d walk past them, they’d poke a dagger into their flesh, just deep enough to draw blood, just deep enough for their pain to reverberate through me, their alpha brother. They were still children to me. They were still the wild and carefree children exploring the cliffs, and the beach, and the fort. Yet, there they were being tortured for no discernible reason other than the Alpha Brotherhood asserting power and dominance,” his face twists with unbearable sadness and also disgust. Eyes rolling shut as he gathers his voice. Stiles leans down, until his forehead is resting against the captain’s. Hand smoothing over the side of his neck, trailing to the back of his head, keeping him close. 

“Paige, even with the bond in place, and possibly because of it, because they wanted to destroy that bond. They did the unspeakable. Even as they tortured my body, it was nothing compared to the what they did to her,” his eyes flit open, staying directly focused on Stiles’s eyes as his thumb rubs along the bite scars on his neck, “they broke her,” barely a whisper, trailing off to a gasp and shimmering tears beginning to slide along his eyelids, catch on his lashes and leave glistening trails down his temples, “and then they killed her. They killed Cora and Lucas as well. And simply left. They boarded the Demon Wolf once again. Leaving me alone on my ship with nothing but death and pain to bring home. All I could do,” he chokes off, nostrils flaring as he swallows deep breaths and every ounce of comfort that Stiles is providing, “was set the ship ablaze. I rowed a galley back to the Harbor. I knew I would not be a able to bear seeing the looks upon the faces of the people of my city if I brought the blood stained and death embedded ship back to the Harbor. ’Twas better for them not to see, for them to think they were afforded painless deaths, or at the very least honorable deaths,” his jaw clenches so hard it’s likely to break his molars.

Stiles emits a shallow rumble, nothing as deep and resonant as something an alpha is capable. But it seems to bring a mild sense of calm to the man beneath him. The man who’s body is a boom chain, taut and ready to snap. 

“I was barely conscious, hardly made it to the Harbor. Rather, I was picked up by a fishing rig. Brought to the estate and nursed back to health by Laura and my mother. I took up with Uncle Peter, planning revenge. It became the thing my body thrived off, my lifeblood. These images I had of delivering the Alpha Brotherhood the slow and painful deaths they deserved. We built a new crew. My mother warned against it, against seeking vengeance. She told me it would never fill the gap in my heart and soul, no matter the instant pleasure and relief I’d receive from it. T’would never bring them back. She was correct. Omegas usually are.” The corner of his mouth twitches, “there was much joy in taking Ennis’s life. But it did not bring the others back. There would have been much joy in tying Deucalion to the rigging and keelhauling him for seven days. Chaining him in the bilge of his own ship and raping him. Restraining Kali to the mast and making him watch as I tortured her. There would have been much satisfaction in it. For a moment. Perhaps two. But it would have faded. Most likely it would have faded rather quickly. Leaving nothing behind but more blood on my hands, more death on my conscience,” his deep breath fills his lungs, expands his ribs and gives Stiles a lift as well. His hands rising to stroke through Stiles’s hair, watching his eyes, as though he can find his very soul at the depth of them, “I apologize for any harm it may cause you to hear such stories…”

“Don’t,” his voice exits firm, crisp and clear, “don’t you dare apologize. I thank you for telling me. For trusting me. And…”

“You were part of the reason.”

“Pardon?”

“Finding you. In the condition you were in. It didn’t feel like a second chance, or a way to fix things. I didn’t see Paige when I looked at you. I didn’t see Cora or Lucas or any of their other prisoners. In you, I saw hope. Even in the state you were in, even after all they’d done to you, there was still such strength in you. And for a long time, I had forgotten what hope looked like,” his hand strokes through Stiles’s hair, landing on the back of his neck, remaining there, “you gave me hope. A chance to hope again, to live for something more than vengeance.”

Stiles feels his mouth fall open and hang that way for a moment before he can gather enough wit to respond, “I don’t believe I know what to say now, so I believe I shall kiss you instead. If that is appropriate at this time.”

Derek’s eyes light with something resembling amusement and Stiles reaches forward to wipe through the tear stains before carefully sinking into his lips. Gently brushing his affection for the man against his softness, past the coarse hair of his beard. Not progressing beyond that, understanding that this is simply a kiss when words cannot suffice. 

——————

Derek spends much of the following days teaching Stiles arms. His vast array of weapons too many to master in such a short time, but he’s insistent upon teaching him the basics. Basics which make him tired and achy by the time he’s preparing for bed at night. Tired and achy in the best way possible as Derek sets about rubbing his shoulders and back to ease the pain. 

As he’s growing more and more used to the tender but firm touch of the captain, he realizes that there’s no use to growing dependent upon it. It will soon be gone.

Alas, there is no harm in taking full advantage of the time left together.

———————

The closer they get to home, the further away from it Stiles feels. Perhaps it is impossible for one to return home in the same body with different skin. Perhaps it shall never feel like home again. Or perhaps he is just concerned about how his father and Melissa will respond after so much time has passed. It’s possible they don’t even know, they may think that Scott and Stiles ran off on purpose. 

He takes a deep breath of the cooling air, a storm cloud hovering over the land that is now visible through the spy glass dropping light swirls of snowflakes and mingling with smoke dancing up from chimneys nestled in the valley. 

“It’s so close now,” Scotty announces excitedly as he steps into place beside Stiles, hands along the rail. He takes a deep breath, “I can smell it,” his grin is wide, “Mom’s cooking, the fresh cold air, the freedom of the mountains,” his hand rises from the rail to clap down on Stiles’s shoulder. If Scott can feel his trepidation, he certainly is ignoring it in favor of an embrace. A very hearty embrace. 

The flutters in Stiles’s stomach recede slightly, knowing at the very least that he has this, his best friend at his side. He won’t be facing this alone. 

As he leans his chin into Scott’s shoulder, his gaze is caught on the man at the helm. His eyes sparked with the light of the midday sun. Breath exiting his lips in a hazy puff of frozen air. The man tips his hat, softness in his expression that rises yearning in Stiles’s chest although he is right there, right in front of him. 

Thinking about what Derek said, about returning to Beacon Harbor, seeking education in a place that is more omega friendly than any other place on Earth. But his father. His father is here, in the North. In his childhood dreams it was always here that he settled. As his eyes drift over Derek’s chest, he wonders if possibly childhood dreams are just that. Dreams. 

———————

The Harbor is not nearly vast enough for a ship the size of the Triskelion so they must load the galleys and row ashore. As Stiles steps off the ship for what is possibly the last time, he feels an emptiness beginning to settle under his ribcage. A deep, aching void that he knows will only grow as the days pass.

He takes up an oar beside Derek, knowing they will most likely be elbowing one another the whole while they row, but being alongside him feels ever more important. Working at his side, and scenting his sweat, hearing his breathing patterns and sharing the brunt of the load feels not only necessary but something Stiles will long for when it’s gone. 

Derek is the typically silent force that he inhabits, his scent calm and his face set in determination. Stiles is quite certain that when the captain sets his mind to something, he will accomplish it no matter the hurdles laid out before him.

A swell of nerves tingles in his chest when the bodies on the shore become visible. As the galleys in front of them are unloading, as some of his village-folk are reunited with family, and his eyes catch sight of his dad. He loses the argument with himself, to keep his composure, to keep his dignity. Rather, as soon as he is in shallow enough water, he bails off the side of the galley, immediately tripping into the cold water, taking his breath as he knew it would, soaking his layers of clothing to make him that much slower getting to shore than if he had just stayed aboard. But Dad is running out to meet him. Soaking himself in the cold water to reach Stiles as soon as possible. 

Wrapped tightly in Dad’s embrace, his words crashing in and out of the fuzz in Stiles’s ears, his repetitive, “my son, my son,” as he hides his face in his neck. Breathing in the scent of what used to be home. ’Tis different now, still his father, still the man he looks up to. But different somehow for the way it feels settling over his mind. 

Dad pushes him out with his hands on his shoulders to give him a good look over, his eyes cloud when he sees the top layers of bite scars, the ones that cannot be hidden without a scarf. A mixture of worry and anger seeping into his expression, gone just as quickly as his focus when he shifts to look at Stiles’s eyes, “I’ve missed you.”

“Me too,” Stiles tugs him into another embrace, not wanting to give this moment up yet, not wanting to let his thoughts and worries start to tangle once more. Not wanting to make a decision. A decision for his future, for his past, for his wants and for his needs. 

——————

Dad has the presence of mind to wait until they are in private to press the tip of his dagger to Derek’s throat, growling at him, “if a single scar or mark of any sort on my son’s body is your doing…”

“No, Dad it’s not,” Stiles jolts forward, not having expected the man to threaten the captain. He certainly knew that his father would have queries and concerns, that he’d push until he found all his answers, that he’d not eagerly trust Derek, or his crew even if they were the ones who brought Stiles home in one piece. His fingers close over his father's on the grip, drawing his arm back, “Captain Hale has been nothing but,” his voice trails off for a moment, trying to grasp a word that might suffice, but he comes up empty and shrugs, “perfect,” finishing with a breathy sigh that he knows sounds ridiculous. 'Tis simply the truth of the matter. 

Dad looks skeptical, but he lowers the blade and motions Derek to have a seat at the table. Stiles wanders about the place, taking note of all things that have changed, and all things that have remained the same. His mouth begins to move, telling bits and pieces of what occurred between here and there and here again. He leaves out the bits he can’t find words for, the bits that his father would never recover from hearing. He is intelligent enough to fill in the blanks on his own. All the while, Dad’s eyes follow Stiles’s movements and occasionally track over to Derek where he sits still and calm at the table. 

There are maps on the ledge, maps of the Sea, plotted routes that Dad must have set for himself had he been able to procure a ship to give chase to whomever must have taken his son. Stiles traces the routes with his finger, a knot of pain tying itself in his chest when he thinks of his father sitting here night after night torturing himself over the whereabouts of his son, his only family.

“Dad, I,” he begins but his lip trembles too much to finish and his mind begins to sort through all the images he can’t seem to forget but he can’t seem to remember. His father’s arms are around him once more, tucking him close to his body while tears rise and spill over.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Dad whispers, “I’m sorry I didn’t protect you nearly as much as I should have.”

“No, it’s not your fault. It’s not. I would have snuck out regardless of who’s roof I was under. Scott and I, we were curious, and we would have gone to market a hundred times and never been captured had it not been for,” he shudders, “bad luck or bad timing. Or just bad people.”

Dad holds him in his embrace for much longer than necessary, knowing no matter what words he speaks his father will always blame himself for not stopping it, for not giving chase, for not finding him, for not just hauling him to his job every day so none of this ever had the chance to occur. 

When he backs away, he runs his hands over his cheeks, clears his throat and announces, “there’s certain to be a feast. Please,” he motions towards the back of the hut, beyond which is the ground sauna, “bathe at ready.”

Nodding at Dad as he walks away, leaving him alone with Derek in the hut he grew up in. Wiping tears that have tracked down his cheeks, attempting to gather some strength, realizing he’ll have to face the village with his proper wits about him and appearance of duties expected of an unbonded omega. He shudders, biting at his lower lip, hands rising to hide his eyes behind.

“We are men, we don’t cry,” he snarks to the room in general. 

Derek’s snort is not the only response. The sound of his movement as he stands, the shuffling of his boots, and then the feel of the heat of his body as his arms wrap around Stiles’s frame, mumbling against his hair when he tucks his head alongside his neck, “perhaps we should cry more often. Until there is no shame attached to it,” his hand slips down Stiles’s back and remains on the small of it, pulling him close, “there is no shame between us, Stiles.”

His mind immediately reaches for a distraction, much as his dad had just done, but he takes a deep breath, notes the scent of Derek’s calm and truth. And instead of seeking that distraction, he allows himself to crumble. Clamping his arms tight around the captain, burying his face in his neck, allowing himself a moment of pure weakness, allowing himself to be completely and utterly overwhelmed by every moment of the last months that have bled into years and have all come back to this. Here in his childhood home that he suddenly feels too changed for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going to say that "mom" and "dad" were typical in the North even if it's not exactly historically accurate to have used those terms but I just can't have Stiles calling the Sheriff "father" :) 
> 
> Also it was said earlier in the fic that the Alphas spared some of Derek's crew, but I changed my mind. Ouch, I know. His current crew is loyal to him for other reasons and has heard a lot of stories and such, they know him and love him and know the lengths he would go to protect his people.


	17. Then Don't

Then Don’t

Derek thought himself a man of culture. A man who had seen much and nearly all through his travels, even if he is well aware there are still places on this Earth he has not touched. But he has never seen the likes of this. It is a pit dug into a slope of a hill behind the huts, the fireplace is filled with stones and every time water is thrown on it, it steams hot. Hot enough that even with the snow dancing around the air outside, it is plenty warm in here to remove clothing and bathe accordingly. 

Stiles explained that while the sauna, as it’s called, is a shared bathing house there is little chance of anyone else entering it this late into the day. It is told that the spirits come out to the sauna in the eve to keep warm on long winter nights. Northern customs are strange, though very interesting and Derek intends to respect them. 

Stiles has set about washing himself with a wet cloth, dipping it into a bucket that has been inside the structure all day to keep the water heated. It is hard to focus on anything else when the lad is naked. His long lines and pale skin, the way the water slides over his every dip and curve. Derek wishes to lean forward and trace the line of his back with his tongue, following the bead of water that is navigating its way down his spine.

Tingles enter his belly and slowly melt into his groin, certain Stiles can scent it, he is not about to hide it, instead, “Stiles, I wish to…”

“Suck my cock,” his head turns with a wicked sparkle in his eye, the back of his body fully exposed to Derek while the front is hidden. Derek can scent his arousal as well, though his is mostly buried in the anxiety and nerves that have been wafting off him all day long. Nearly as soon as the words part his lips, his body stiffens. As though he is allowing himself to second guess the request or possibly the demand. If given time, he’ll most likely flush, cower and apologize. If given silence he might even deem the cat o’nine tails to be appropriate. Derek cannot abide by that.

Responding quickly, “aye,” as he steps forward to take his narrow hips in his hands, leaning his face into the back of his neck and pressing his lips to his spine to halt the progress of another bead of water that is going to leave a shimmering and unbearably beautiful trail down his flesh if he lets it. 

Stiles shudders at the contact, a light gasp parting his lips. His body is relaxed, even with an alpha at his back. If it comes to pass that Stiles will stay here, that Derek will never see him again after he sets sail in a few days, he will have this. Quite possibly it will have to be enough.

He takes a deep breath, letting his mind fill with the feel of the lad. Perhaps he shouldn’t be making sexual advances when his emotions are high after setting foot here again for the first time in so long, after seeing his father, after being met with his culture that Derek is starting to think has played a hand in teaching him to resent his omega status. 

With his fingers bent around the handles of Stiles’s hips, he gently nudges until he turns in his grasp. His eyes sparked with lust, his lips parted and his cheeks pinked from the steaming heat. He truly is the most beautiful thing Derek has ever seen. Brushing a thumb over his jaw, tilting his head just slightly. He leans until his nose is touching the lad’s, waits for any hesitation. When there is none, he dips into his plush lips. Taking his time to trace the seam of them, allowing Stiles to open when ready. It takes barely a time at all. Stiles’s hands rising from his sides to pull Derek closer, closer until their chests are flush. Breathing in the same stunted rhythm of excitement. Hearts beating hard, hard enough that Derek is certain his own is attempting to find a plank to walk so it can plunge itself into Stiles’s chest and live there. His long, spindly fingers slide down Dereks back. Trailing sweat along with them to his buttocks, hesitating only momentarily then pulling him close. Pelvis to pelvis until their hardened cocks are nestled between them. A low moan rises from Stiles’s chest, reverberates past his lips and tangles on Derek’s tongue. 

He responds in kind, with a rumble of approval. One hand is cupping the back of Stiles’s head now, keeping him close but not so close that he has no escape should he want it. The other staying between his shoulder-blades that are beginning to gain small amounts of padding, the sharpness of starvation beginning to dull. Much to Derek’s relief. 

Derek’s kisses track off the edge of his lips, taking a path across his jaw, down his throat. He lingers there to feel Stiles swallow, to feel his Adam’s Apple bob against his closed lips. To make himself familiar with such an intimate place, such a vulnerable place. One that Stiles is trusting him with. He’s no intention to mark the lad. Possibly ever. But remaining here, breathing him in and feeling his body beneath his fingers still lax and trusting. Certainly, it rises the urge. The urge to claim. Derek swallows it back, drops his hands to Stiles’s hips, pushing him back slightly, mumbling a quiet request against his collarbone, “lie down.”

Stiles’s verbal response is untranslatable, his fingers digging into Derek’s scalp as he backs away to the wooden bench, laying himself out atop it. It catches Derek’s breath and steals it from his lungs to see every inch of the omega. Bare, clean, and willing. He can scent the tang of the lad’s slick even from this distance. It makes his back teeth feel as though they are sailing atop the Sea, and his heart lurch to his throat. Alas, there is not a chance Derek will be touching or kissing, or gaining access to so sacred a place. Not until Stiles is ready. More than ready. 

Focusing on the scent of the dirt walls, and the heat of the fire, on the hot stones, and the warm bench beneath his hands when he leans over, nudging his knees between the lad’s. He takes his hands when they rise off his stomach, links their fingers and presses them down on his chest. Bending to reach his chest, nipples, stomach with his mouth. Leaving kisses and sucks, nothing long enough to mark even if his alpha is suggesting strongly that such a thing happen. ’Tis not his decision to make. 

He trails the length of Stiles’s cock with his nose first, then his tongue. The guttural moan makes his own cock twitch, his fingers tightening their grip. Derek rests his nose in the groin of the omega, taking in deep lungfuls of his precum and his slick. The mingling of the two is intoxicating, he’s nearly certain he could just lie here, breathing him in and orgasm without so much as touching himself. 

Suckling at his ball bag, teasing the wrinkled skin with the tip of his tongue before releasing only to turn his head and ride the ridge of his beautiful cock with his lips closed. Meeting the tip of it with his tongue, taking the salty fluid into his mouth as he angles himself to sink down the length of it. Stiles groans and it rises goosebumps on every inch of Derek’s overheated flesh. 

There was perhaps a time too many that he sought comfort in whores after the death of his mate. Never in Beacon Harbor, it was too close to home, too close to his family, and he has known much of the whores that Lydia keeps. Known many of them since childhood. ’Twas the influence of Uncle Peter, his frank discussions of a man’s needs, an alpha’s needs. Especially after the loss of a mate. To keep himself from going insane with need, a companion was necessary from time to time. But it grew rather boring rather quickly. And the longer he went without a turn, the easier he found it to control his alpha urges. He supposes it’s much like a skill, can be honed and practiced to perfection. But ’tis only fulfilling when the reasoning for it is sound. 

This though, drawing a cock into his mouth, down his throat, and filling himself with the hard line of it, the taste of it, the feel of it. This is a motion he’ll never forget. He rather enjoys it, though it’s not a typical alpha tactic. He is more than pleased to please his partner, no matter what that may say about his status. 

He’s no stranger to male or female, alpha, beta, or omega partners. He’s even quite certain that given the right circumstances, and the right partner he’d be willing to give himself in ways he’s not yet. His mind briefly wanders towards giving that to Stiles. Allowing the lad to fuck him, to understand each function of his sexuality. A tingle rips down his spine, but he stifles the idea. They are nowhere near a place of fucking yet. No matter the position or role. 

Moving his head up and down in a slow, torturous rhythm, letting himself soak in the quiet moans that are echoing in Stiles’s body. Letting his reactions guide him. He only stops in his ministrations when the omega begins to squirm. Releasing his cock to peer up at him. His head is lifted, face aimed at Derek while he attempts to reposition them, “don’t stop. Just let me,” his leg seems to be attempting to get underneath Derek, “here, just,” Derek lifts his hips wondering if the lad is trying to close his legs to hide his slick scent. 

Derek opens his mouth to query his intentions, but he’s finally accomplished them as he runs his foot along Derek’s achingly hard cock. Derek groans in response. It will not take much, if any, prodding to get him off. Just being here, with the scent of mate and trust and arousal is more than enough. But the feel of his soft skin as he settles his leg beneath Derek’s hips and nods, “there, must be more comfortable than the wooden bench Big Guy,” he winks, “now, where were we?” his fingers twisting around Derek’s.

Humping his ankle is not exactly the most romantic thing Derek has ever done, but if it’s what he’ll offer, then it is enough. Quite possibly more than enough as he sinks back down the length of Stiles’s cock and a moan that would make the entire house of ill repute blush exits his lips. 

Stiles undulates, gathering what little friction he can gain from his rump against the bench, his leg moving ever so slightly against Derek’s cock. The scent of his slick growing thicker in the air, Derek moans around his mouthful and Stiles gasps, his belly hollowing out, pelvis rising, cock pulsing against Derek’s lips. He feels his eyes roll back as his lids shut, taking in the scents to their full extent, smelling himself now mingling with all of Stiles it causes bright lights and swirling colors to splatter his eyelids. 

Taking the last of Stiles’s cum down his throat, he releases to the sound of Stiles’s breath so pleasured it’s nearly pained. His fingers clamping and releasing, stretching them against his own chest only to close once more in Derek’s hands, “my gods,” he chokes out eventually as Derek leans his forehead against his soft, smooth stomach. Kissing softly his trail of dark hair, nose landing in his bellybutton. They are both slippery with sweat, and the steam off the rocks still lingering in the air. He feels rather lightheaded with the combination of pleasure and the heat of the sauna. 

Stiles’s hand releases his, this time staying released, moving to his face for a moment. Derek listens as he wipes the wetted rag along his skin before he thumps his hand down on Derek’s head, “get up here you stubborn ass.”

Derek feels himself smile against the lad’s skin, grunting as he adjusts his body to rise until he is hovering over Stiles, who looks quite lost but so very content when his hand rises to trace over Derek’s cheeks with the washrag. The rag is cool, the water a relief, he nestles it against the base of Derek’s skull and tilts his head to offer a few lazy kisses. 

“I don’t recommend we stay in here much longer,” he sighs, “not because of the spirits,” a grin splits his face, eyes twinkling with mischief as he whispers, “we could come back later to chase the myths, see if there is much truth to it. I used to wait outside,” he motions with one hand, not that Derek can see it, but he feels it leave his shoulder and the air currents is causes when he flails, “hide in the bushes and hope to catch sight of them, but I never did. ’Twas a shame, really, I would fall asleep much too soon,” one corner of his smile lifts higher than the other, he tilts his chin suddenly to press against Derek’s lips quickly, patting his back with his hand, “alright, you’re heavy and this bench is wooden, smother me after supper,” as Derek is disentangling himself from the lad, he adds, “I shall need it,” bitterly. 

Perhaps if Derek’s brain wasn’t dulled with pleasure and overridden with heat, he’d question the tone. Or request that he share his worries. 

———————

The feast is loud, fires lit and reaching high into the night’s sky. The flames flickering yellows across the snow laden field. Stiles had grinned at him after helping him find proper dress, telling him he resembled a bear. Stiles, on the other hand, looks as sleek as a person can possibly look wrapped in furs. Derek finds himself to be rather jealous of the fox fur that keeps brushing along the lad’s jaw every time he turns his head to talk. 

He is being kept busy, oddly enough he is expected to help serve the meal. It makes no sense to Derek. The feast is in celebration of their return, and Scott has not been called upon to help. Derek’s not a daft man, nor a slow man, but it’s been so long since he’s truly sat through a meal where omegas were expected to serve that it makes rage twist hot and painful in his stomach when he realizes this is what’s happening. 

He didn’t get much of a chance to speak to the sheriff, but he’d gathered that he wasn’t truly a traditionalist. He’s heard that further North, and this is nearly as far North as one can survive, the traditions were more closely followed. It’s no wonder the lad hates his status. 

Derek sighs, looking heavily into his drink. He’s not been invited to stay at the Stilinski home, he supposes he’ll have to either find an inn, a whore house, or row back out to the Triskelion. None of which sound even in the slightest bit attractive. The bulk of his crew has already dispersed. Most likely having already sniffed out the house of ill repute. He notes Argent and a woman with dark curly hair speaking intently, nearby are Scott and Allison giving each other loving looks. Derek should perhaps allow the Argent term of servitude to end now. He’s no need for them. He only inherited them as it would look poor for them to stay in Beacon Harbor permanently, ’twas better to have them aboard the ship. 

Across the fire, flames are lighting Stiles up in oranges, softly caressing the dips and hollows of his cheeks, the line of his throat. Derek is not the only alpha admiring the view. A young man, about the same age as Stiles steps alongside him. Murmuring something towards his ear that Derek cannot hear, but over the smell of burning wood, he can scent the spike in the lad’s anxiety. As he shifts to get to his feet, taking a deep breath, reminding himself of the dagger in Stiles’s belt, and the confidence that he is slowly building. A confidence that he’ll need in order to be on his own here where the traditions are strong. 

Judging by the look on his face, his response is cutting deeper than any dagger ever could, and his eyes are lit with challenge, the challenge of a verbal joust that he will not back down from. Derek keeps his focus on the two as they have a not very friendly chat, the alpha lad not making any physical moves, but eventually scenting the air much too close to Stiles’s neck for his pleasure. Anger coiling up his spine, he clenches his fists at his side, forcing himself to remain in his seat and let the omega defend himself. 

Stiles takes a large step back, his free hand rising to plant itself on the alpha’s chest. His jaw clenching tight as he spits words that make the alpha lad recoil a bit, but not enough. He carries a smirk with his next statement and Derek scents the shift in Stiles’s emotions just barely before his hand holding a pitcher is rising, first emptying the contents over the head of the alpha lad, then pulling back and taking a heavy swing, he’s nearly connecting the metal pitcher with the side of the alpha’s head when a hand grasps his wrist, tugging back in time to interrupt it. Derek would have allowed it, without a doubt, he’d have let the lad stand up for himself however he saw fit unless it were something that could cause death at this point. But the sheriff must not see it fit to thump the alpha boy on the head with an iron pitcher. 

Stiles turns on his heel, anger flaring his eyes as he faces his father. His father seems to be placating the alpha boy as he nudges Stiles, tilting his head towards their hut, dismissing him. 

Derek knows, through the stories Stiles has shared and through the small meeting he’s had with the sheriff that he is not a bad man, he is not someone who is intentionally holding his omega son back in society. But intentional or not, he follows traditions much more than Derek deems proper. The only way for omegas to gain equality is for everyone in their lives to help them achieve that. 

Derek sighs to himself, gets to his feet and trudges down the path after Stiles. His father has stayed back for now, controlling the situation. He is the lawman after all, he does need to provide balance. 

He has to jog to get close enough, watching as Stiles’s hands rise to his cheeks, angrily wiping off tears, “Stiles,” he calls out when he’s certain he’s within hearing range. Further away from the fire and sounds of the feast, the music that has been a constant background noise all night. 

His hand is hovering midair, nearly reaching him when he turns suddenly. His face tracked with tears, sniffing back snot, and angrily admitting, “I detest it here, Derek. I didn’t remember how much until just now. I detest this little community and all it’s traditions that do nothing but keep omegas down and I’m sick of it. I wanted to be here, I truly did. I wanted to live here and raise a family in the snow and the mountains. I wanted to live my life with all four seasons, but all it’s taken is one evening to remind me that it’ll never change here. It’ll never change,” he swats at his tears, “and my father. He is a good man, but he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t want to stir up the locals by defending his omega son when an alpha is doing what is deemed acceptable by traditions. But I don’t want to be touched! I don’t want to be scented! I don’t want to have to nod and smile and be polite when an alpha decides to pay me attention. I don’t want to shine their shoes and cook their meals and bear their children. I don’t want to be someone’s little house bitch,” his voice trembles, body steeling itself as he breathes through flared nostrils.

Derek gives him a moment, waiting to see if he’s going to speak further. When he does not, Derek suggests politely, “then don’t.”

“Don’t what?” his eyes narrow, arms crossing over his chest.

“Don’t do any of those things. I will not tell you to move away from your childhood home, and your family. But Stiles, these traditions, they are changeable, yes, my mother is proof that the old times are bound to die. The death may be slow and it will take time, hell, some places will never be even half as forward thinking as Beacon Harbor. But should you decide that you want to live in a place that is truly respectful of all statuses, then you are welcome to join me on the voyage back South. You are welcome to make home there. And not as my mate, not as my bitch, not as my anything. You owe me nothing, you owe your father nothing, you owe tradition nothing. You owe yourself,” he sighs, taking the chance to reach out, touch his arm with a gentle squeeze before letting go, “everything. You owe yourself everything.”

He watches Derek’s face for a long moment. Chewing on his lip, arms still crossed tight, but the tears have stopped falling. When his eyes leave Derek, they trail over the fire behind him, the feast still in full swing, and he utters, “Theo,” his face turning sour at the name, “the only alpha in this village who is the same age as me. He’s always had a chip on his shoulder. But even if I went to the town center, I can guarantee you that there would be another, and another who I’d be expected to smile and flirt and act coy with. And if I didn’t do those things they’d say I was being petulant. It’s just the way it is up here, and I just,” his lip trembles, eyes moistening but not spilling over, “after everything,” his voice drops low, low enough that Derek has to still his breathing to hear him, “gods, no one else will ever understand,” his gaze flits over to Derek once more, landing on his eyes and staying there as a single shiny tear escapes him and trails down his cheek.

Derek’s chest feels tight, heavy and aching with the pain of the omega in front of him. He steps forward slowly, lifting a hand to trace over the tear tracks, cupping his jaw as his breath shakes. His arms finally uncrossing, hands landing on Derek’s chest, taking a grip of the breast of his coat to pull him near. He doesn’t resist, not even for a moment. Wrapping the lad up in his arms, holding him close and breathing him in. This decision will be hard, but it is one he needs to make for himself. And Derek will wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope the sheriff is not coming off as an omegaist (anti-omega?) turd here because that is not my intention. I hope it's clear that he's always on Stiles's side, but he's also keeping the peace and he's bound by that and also with the North being more traditional than what Derek is used to in Beacon Harbor, then even if the sheriff is more forward thinking than his fellow Northerners, he's still not as forward thinking and all inclusive as Beacon Harbor. If that even makes sense. There's a little more from Stiles's POV in the next chapter. But I love the sheriff and I hope I'm not making him look bad. It just feels like Stiles needs a little push to leave the nest and understand that with the culture from his childhood home it is not a place where he can spread his wings.


	18. By Choice

By Choice

Stiles keeps biting his lip, swallowing down words that he knows would only damage. Dad is sitting at the table watching him pace. He can tell he wants to say something, Dad wants to reprimand him for dumping a pitcher of mead on an alpha’s head, but he also wants to be proud of him for doing it. He has a line to walk, and Stiles knows that. He’s not mad at him. He’s just frustrated. And confused. With Derek gone for the night, he’s not even certain where he went, just said he’d not sleep here without an official invitation from the owner of the home. Stiles protested, wanting him here, wanting him close. Rowing out to the Triskelion at this time of night, in the icy cold waters, is not safe. Staying at the whore house, that is most likely populated with his own crew, is fine, it is absolutely fine and Stiles will keep telling himself that. Even knowing the laws, and traditions, the societal expectations that even if an alpha man is bonded (which Derek is not, yet another thing that Stiles needs remind himself of often) it is his right to take up company of a whore or even a mistress. 

Stiles runs his hands through his hair. Frustration boiling inside him. At the inn, which is most likely full, Derek would be sitting in the mess hall probably finishing a gallon of rum. Well, not really. He’d probably brood into his blackjack for awhile, and shoot eyebrow daggers at it until it succumbed to it’s destiny and ended up down the hatch. 

“I don’t want to live here,” is finally what he blurts. Stopping in his tracks, his mouth falling open with surprise at the steadiness of his own declaration.

Dad doesn’t even respond with an expression, just a chuckle. As though he expected it. 

“What?” he attempts to sound offended, uncertain of whether it truly sounded that way.

Dad pats the chair beside him, motioning for Stiles to sit. Stiles narrows his eyes at it, crosses his arms over his chest and remains standing. Shaking his head with fondness in his voice, he admits, “you are your mother’s son,” eyes rising to meet his. They are twinkling with the memories of her, and the comparison between them, “and she was never happy here either,” he sighs, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back, “son, I love you, I failed you, and you should be somewhere that you have more opportunities. If I could change it all, if I could make this village see the things that I see when I look at you, when I looked at your mom. If I could…”

“’Tis not your fault Dad,” Stiles assures him. It’s so deeply embedded in the fabric of this place, of most places, this village is rather not unique in its old ways. Stubborn and old and ridiculous, “scupper that, Dad. Come South with us. This place is,” he flaps his hand around in the air between them. And before he can say it, he realizes it is home. It is home. It will always be home for Dad. Every place where he has a memory of his mate, his wife, the mother of his child. Is right here. Built into the walls and swept along the floor. It is in the air he breathes and the water he drinks. Stiles slumps, defeated, into the chair he offered moments ago.

Dad’s hand lands on his shoulder immediately, “you know as well as I do that I am not ready to leave.”

“Yes,” Stiles fights the quiver in his chin.

His hand tightens, eyes meeting Stiles’s, keeping a steady gaze, “I know you, Kid. And I know you’ll do whatever you want at the end of the day,” it’s said with tenderness and more than an ounce of pride, “just know that so long as you are making choices for yourself, for no one else, then I support you. You’ll never lose me, even if you lived on the other side of the Earth, I’d still be here. And someday, maybe, I’ll tire of being the law. I’ll want to live out my final years somewhere that I don’t have to fight with snow and ice for much of the year. I’ll desire warm summer skies year round. In the meantime, keep a working relationship with a person who sails,” his eyes spark in a knowing fashion, “and know you are welcome to come home whenever and for however long you desire.”

Stiles would respond, but his eyes have welled up with tears and his mouth has been glued shut with emotions that are too much on top of the rest of this day. Instead he nods, and allows himself to be pulled in to a tight embrace. Lingering there for a long moment, taking in deep breaths of his father’s scent until the man speaks against his hair, “go now. Gather your captain. Tell him he is welcome to stay here, there is no need for him to purchase a room for the duration of your stay.”

Stiles’s heart stutters, he nearly denies it, denies his feelings for Derek, tells his father it’s only a comfort thing. But his father would know he was lying before it was even out of his mouth. Instead he squeezes him tight once more, and darts to his feet, hurrying out the door and shouting, “thank you, Dad,” on his way out into the dark night. Cold air nipping at his skin immediately but unable to cool the excitement in his core. 

———————

He finds Derek deep in his own head, standing outside the tavern with a scowl on his perfect face. It makes Stiles grin to see it, the way he is daring the snow to touch him or the darkness beyond the street to swallow him whole, or possibly the old man across the way to pick a fight. He’s not entirely certain what would require such intensity, but the captain is lucky that Stiles found Boyd outside the Inn and he directed him here before he could steal a galley and row himself to the Triskelion after looking at the whorehouse first. It was with much trepidation that he looked there. Knowing in his heart that Derek was not that type of alpha, or man. And preparing his head to prepare his heart to find him there with a lass on one knee and a lad on the other. Well, there has to be some reason he is so well seasoned in the ways of pleasure. 

He doesn’t stifle the growl that reverberates through his chest at all the tangled emotions in his mind and under his ribcage upon seeing him standing there, “what, precisely, are you doing, Captain?” stalking towards him without slowing his pace. Only stopping once he is a mere breath away from his face. Being the same height is rather convenient.

His eyebrows rise, slight annoyance, but his eyes give away his bluff when they soften as he takes in Stiles’s scent, “as I previously imagined, the inn was full, the whorehouse was, well, a whorehouse, and I came here. Then I decided that the Northern mead was not something to be reckoned with and thought perhaps I should gather some fresh air, so,” he trails off, allowing Stiles to finish the thought.

“You stood out here in the cold and glared at snowflakes?”

“I was deep in thought actually.”

“Oh, really? Because your deep in thought face looks an awful lot like a scowl. And you look so rather intimidating when you scowl.”

“Intimidating?” his hands rise from his sides, landing on Stiles’s hips, the line of his thumb dipping into his layers to press along his belly. It makes him shudder and attempt to stifle it, but he fails miserably, “if I am so intimidating, then what, pray tell, are you doing in my space without warning?”

“Without permission?” it’s possible he purrs it, licking his lips as his nose brushes against Derek’s.

“Permission? T’would be folly to give you permission,” his breath gusts hot against the cold that has taken Stiles’s cheeks even through the heat of flush, “as I am quite certain you already know you need no permission from me. My space is your space,” he says it with such certainty that Stiles might, possibly (just very slightly) whine. A very pathetic, very needy sound that he then decides to hide by pressing his lips against Derek’s. 

Derek has only enough time to breathe out an amused sigh before Stiles is tracing the seam of his lips with his tongue. The captain immediately opening up for him, allowing his explorations as his hands slide around Stiles’s hips to press against the small of his back. Drawing him ever nearer. He is quite certain that he could very easily melt into the man’s body, become stuck to him for eternity. An eternity that Stiles is very certain he’d like to chase. 

His hands rise to slide through the furs at Derek’s shoulders, toying with the edge of it as he leans away from his lips. This is not a very intelligent place to give in to hormones. He presses his forehead against Derek’s, lingers there breathing the heat of him, whispering gently, “you have been invited to stay at my home. By my father. ’Tis possible,” he nips at Derek’s lower lip. Just enough to get a startled grunt out of the man, “we’d be expected to bed together,” he uses the line Derek himself had used in Beacon Harbor, “should it please you,” he shrugs as he draws back, gaining an angle to see his face. Flipping the fur in his finger as Derek smiles. A smile that knocks the breath out of Stiles’s body and forces him to step forward once more, diving into his lips until their teeth clack together and the captain tilts his head, pushing out with his jaw to move them to the angle he desires. 

Stiles takes one step, two, and then Derek is stepping with him. Walking backwards as Stiles walks forward, pressing him into the shadows. They may return home smelling of satisfaction but it is late. Late enough that Stiles knows his father is well into the land of dreams and they can slip into the hut undetected. 

——————

Stiles expects to wake with worries creeping back into his mind, worries about leaving his dad behind, his home, his best friend. The world he knows. But he is wrong (it does indeed happen. Rarely. From time to time that he is wrong. Very very rarely.).

Instead, with Derek’s arm heavy on his ribs, with his hand flat over his heart and the rest of him behind him but far enough back to feel the empty space between them. Stiles takes a deep breath, arches back, shimmies and finally locks into place with his back firmly against the captain’s front. Much like a quick morning embrace, only lasting a moment. Enough for comfort, not enough for lust to spike between them. Knowing he is still in his dad’s home and lust is not something he should be chasing here. Even if his body is thrumming with anticipation in ways it never has before. 

He takes a deep breath, and pushes himself out of the bedding. Promptly tripping over a rug and falling to his face on the floor, “just making sure everyone is awake,” he announces when he hears both Derek and his father startle at the sound. 

———————

Every day has a bittersweet edge to it now. Knowing he is leaving here long term. Knowing his father will be without him for a time. For possibly the rest of his life other than whatever visits he can weasel his way into. But it’s alright, Dad has been alone all this time since Stiles was taken. He appears to be taking good care of himself, and he’s the same dad he’s always been. He has friends, and life here. He will be just fine, Stiles needs to remind himself of this often.

“Leaving by choice this time,” Dad smiles at him when he realizes Stiles is watching him, chewing his nail and trying to bore into his head to see the future.

“Aye.”

“I find much comfort in knowing this,” he allows a half smile, as he pats Stiles’s shoulder.

———————

It passes too quickly, much too quickly. Stiles is still finding himself waiting for second thoughts to crash into his mind. Even as he packs his meager belongings, as he brings them down to the docks. As he embraces Scott, and begs Melissa to make certain his father is caring for himself. Hell, he even tells Argent and Allison to keep an eye on him. Derek released them from their service, and they have both decided to remain here.

Dad’s warm hands clamp down on his shoulders, spinning Stiles to face him before he can make an even bigger fool of himself, “I’m a grown man, I can care for myself, son,” a good-natured smile on his face. 

The sun has broken through the clouds, sparkling off the surface of the deep blue Sea. Small pieces of ice have begun to form in the water, pushing their way into shore. They will rather rapidly multiply and the entire harbor will freeze over, making it impossible to return until the thaw in the Spring. Thinking of this, Stiles does not feel panic, it is indeed the opposite strangely enough. Knowing that he is leaving, he has chosen to leave and the very village itself with the help of Mother Nature closing itself to his reentry for long enough to know, for him to be in the South and begin a life, a life of his own. By the time the Spring thaw comes ‘round he’ll either have succeeded, have gained his independence or he’ll have failed and he’ll be boarding the next ship North. 

He takes a deep breath, letting all the scents of what used to be home fill his mind, drawing in enough to take with him, to always remember. He takes a moment to memorize the lines of Dad’s face, the crinkle around his eyes as he smiles, the pride that twinkles there in the depth of blue. He takes note of the way his hands feel on his back, his arms ‘round him in a tight, safe embrace. The pattern of his breaths and the beat of his heart. When he closes his eyes to feel it ever more deeply, a single tear is shed. This time the tear is not mutinous, nor escaping, it is not a tear that he is desperate to hide. No, this tear, it is well warranted and he allows it to slide down his cheek without wiping it off. Even as his dad leans back to look at him, to memorize his face as well, to take in every hue of his iris. His hand clamping reassuringly on his shoulder and a nod, “go, get out of here.”

Stiles feels a smile rise on his face, a lightness in his step, “I love you, Dad.”

“I love you too, son, now get out of here before your ride leaves without you.”

He manages to clamber into the galley without falling into the water, seating himself aside Derek to take an ore. His arm brushing up against Derek’s every time they row, the comfort of it seeping into his chest so quickly and determinedly that it overrides any bits of guilt or worry that were lingering. This time, it is indeed, his own choice, his own free will to leave. 

As the dock and harbor become further and further away from them, he allows the excitement to take over in fluttering wings upon his chest, inside his belly. It drifts over every inch of him as he turns his head to catch the gaze of the man beside him. A gaze that is reassuring, soft, and confident. Stiles feels his eyes roll shut, taking a deep breath through his nose and letting it slowly exit his mouth. Derek’s hand makes contact, so briefly squeezing his leg, silently communicating that he’s here and he’s not going anywhere. As he releases, Stiles grasps his fingers, entwining them to bring them to his lips, leaving them there to take the mingled scents of them into his mind, blanketing his soul. 

A shaky breath, his eyes open and he feels himself smile. A smile that for the first time in so long feels unweighted.


	19. In The Blink Of An Eye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a little bit from the sheriff to ease some worries about them being apart (it won't be for long).

In The Blink Of An Eye

John Stilinski stays at the docks until the ship is long gone beyond the fingers of the land, and the bend of the horizon. An ache has settled on his chest, but in his mind he knows this is for the best. Stiles will never be allowed to be his true self until he is in a community that supports him equally. 

This place, the cold air and the fresh Sea breeze, the mountains capped in snow year round, the green in the valleys that turns orange, red, and yellow in the Autumn. The memories he has of Claudia here, of Stiles here. He always thought they would be enough, he always thought he would be enough. But after Claudia passed, and Stiles presented, it was his duty to send him to someone who could better understand. Though Melissa is a beta, as a healer and a woman, she is more in touch with the things that Stiles would need. And he seemed happy, if not happy, then at the very least content. He had Scott and had his schooling that John thought would gain him a position in the village should he choose it. He’d certainly be fit for healing. But his son’s heart had lived elsewhere. Always trailing John like a shadow when he was out on business. His eyes lit with glee whenever John would catch him and have to send him home. 

It was in the blink of an eye that he was gone. 

John closes his eyes, lets his mind conjure the images of the boy’s life thus far. He was such a wild little shit as a boy. Shaking his head of the thoughts, he grounds himself and starts the trek home. 

From all the things he spoke with Captain Hale and Stiles about, he is certain that Beacon Harbor is more accepting of omegas than any other place on this Earth. Stiles has more opportunities there than he ever could here. He can not only survive, but he can thrive. He’ll give them Hell, John is certain.

Smiling to himself by the time he enters the hut, the place that seemed so full of life for the past week, now it seems dull and empty. Removing his boots at the door, coat on the hook. He stokes the fire before he pulls out a seat at the table. Eying the empty spaces where Stiles’s things used to be. His gaze falls to the table in front of him, finding a letter folded neatly, he smiles to himself, knowing his son would get the final word no matter what. 

He’s appreciative of how much the captain has taught Stiles, things that John never had the time or resources for. But he always believed his son would learn quickly. 

Surprised when two letters fall out of the folded pile as he lifts them. On top is a very professional letter from the captain thanking him for his hospitality first and foremost, and then a man’s name, his shipping information and his route. A route that brings him through the North twice yearly. It goes on to explain that Captain Jordan Parrish is a man Derek has known for a few years now, he’s a tradesman and his routes are stable. One in the Spring and one in Autumn. Should John choose to visit, or come to Beacon Harbor to stay, he is always welcome. According to Derek’s letter. There is also a promise that he will keep an eye on Stiles, make sure he is given the chance to make his own way. 

Imagine that, a place where alphas are raised to understand that they cannot blame their ill actions on hormones. They understand that omegas are humans too, not claims to stake, or helpless creatures to be taken care of. This Beacon Harbor sounds more and more like a place John would very much like to see. He sighs, folding the first letter and opening the second.

The second one is in the sloppy handwriting that the has come to recognize as his son’s. It simply says, _You damn well better be on that ship in the Spring, Pops. Much gratitude for giving me the start that allowed me to be the man I plan to be. With love, your son, Stiles_.

Should a tear fall upon the folded letter in his hand, then that is between John and the letter.


	20. You Will Know

You Will Know

“Perhaps,” Stiles sighs, looking up at the ceiling in the captain’s quarters. The sea rocking the boat in a gentling manner, “I am ready for intercourse,” his hand falls from where it had risen to wipe across his face, and lands on Derek’s shoulder. 

Derek had insisted Stiles do the reading this evening. While he laid his head on Stiles’s chest and traced the lines of his palm, up his wrist. The softness in his fingertips enough to have Stiles’s heart racing and his pulse pounding in his ears. A tingling deep in his stomach beginning to spread through his groin with every exhale of Derek’s that breezes over his bare flesh. 

Derek doesn’t respond quickly enough, so Stiles surmises, “it cannot be that bad. It’s nothing that I haven’t already experienced. Though it would be quite different this time. Without the rigging and such,” a layer of sweat has risen on his skin even though ’tis not warm in here. He takes a deep breath and opens his mouth to expand upon his musings but Derek clears his throat, making him stop and chew on his lip instead.

“No.”

Stiles waits for more, but he offers nothing. Aside from linking his fingers through Stiles’s, bringing his hand to his lips and kissing the base of his wrist.

“No?”

“No. Perhaps when your pondering results in certainty instead of…”

“I am certain. I am quite certain,” even if it twists in his gut when he truly thinks about it. About having someone inside of him, having someone holding him down or biting at his throat. Even if it is Derek, and Derek has made no moves to do anything so aggressive during their intimate moments thus far, but he is an alpha. And alphas have urges, urges that grow ever stronger when an omega is vulnerable. 

Derek’s head rises, leveling Stiles with his gaze, studying his face and most likely scenting a rising anxiety, “certainly there will be mild fear, but when you are truly ready the passion and lust, the excitement will override lingering doubts. You will know, when the time comes, and the right partner comes, that you are cherished.”

Stiles clamps his jaw shut for a moment, pursing his lips and the worry rushing through his head drowns out any more of Derek’s voice. The man is still talking when Stiles squirms under him, his body needing to move. Needing to get out of the bed and pace. The room is beginning to blur, his mind whirring. The right partner. The right partner, “the right partner?” his attempt to keep his voice steady is quickly defeated by the storming emotions that are overtaking his chest, “are you rejecting me once again, Captain?”

“No,” his answer is quick. When Stiles’s eyes dart over to the bedding, he is rolling up to his side and dragging himself to seated, rubbing a hand over his face. His hair mused on the side that was resting against Stiles’s chest only a moment ago.

“Still about respect? Because I’m having a hard time deciphering the difference,” he wants to shout it, but his voice is betraying him, getting shaky and slightly pitched. He pinches his eyes closed, breathing through his nose in attempts to calm the swirling room. On the air he detects the salty Sea, beginning to warm as they’ve traveled far enough South that the vast majority of the water surrounding them is turquoise instead of the deep, cold blue of the North. Also meeting his nostrils is Derek’s strong comforting scent. How can the man be so stable? As though he feels no emotion, “you told me, when we left Beacon Harbor that you felt for me,” he stops pacing, forcing his spine to straighten and his eyes to meet Derek’s, “has this changed?”

“No,” it’s breathy, like the very idea is painful, “has not changed. But Stiles, you have only been with me. You’ve not the opportunity to spend time with anyone else romantically. You cannot possibly know if you want me. And when you decide to have intercourse, it should be the man or woman you will bond with. It should be…”

“You! It should be you! Derek, you do not truly believe that I even want to attempt getting to know anyone else intimately! You cannot truly believe that I would prefer for anyone else to,” he motions with his hand over the length of his body, “I want you,” his chin juts out when he says it, even if his eyes grow blurry with the bite of tears that he will not allow to fall, and his voice shakes along with his breath.

Derek’s eyes are locked onto his and he appears as though he can see right through Stiles, “you need independence Stiles. You need to know yourself and understand the things you can accomplish on your own.”

“I need to not depend on my alpha?” he is having a hard time grasping the things he is hearing. 

“Aye.”

“What does being in love with you have to do with my independence?”

“I,” he opens his mouth before the words truly sink in, then he clamps it shut again, surprise rising on his features, a look of pride twinkles in his eyes. Blinking, he douses it quickly. Though the scent cannot be hidden that easily. Stiles feels himself smile, a fluttering taking over his chest. He has just thrown the captain for a loop. He has brought a spring upon the cable, he has brought the boom about, “love?”

“Aye,” he can feel his cheeks beginning to heat with a blush and suddenly he feels rather exposed standing here in his under-britches. 

Derek stands handsomely, taking the steps across the quarters to take Stiles’s arms in his hands, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, leaning forward not to capture his lips, but to press a kiss against his forehead instead and slide his arms around his body. Hands falling flat on his shoulder-blades to hold him near. Stiles melts into the embrace immediately, scenting the alpha’s content, blooming warm in his chest.

“I love you, Stiles,” his voice a soft rumble, moving the hair along the side of Stiles’s head, “but I am not going to bond with you until you have fully realized your potential. On your own. Without my influence. You are so strong, intelligent, and brave. And I need you to know that before you and I become we.”

Stiles wants to tell him to get off the high road and take what is being offered. But he can’t help to realize that the captain is correct. Stiles has spent enough time thinking he is less than for being an omega. ’Tis not something that will change overnight. He takes a deep breath of Derek’s reassurance, “well, I’m glad I already know that your mother and father are quite okay with your unbonded mate spending time in your bed,” he nudges his nose into the alpha’s neck, inhaling him deeply as a chuckle vibrates against his face. 

He waits until they are lying side by side in bed again, sated through kisses and handy work, watching Derek watch him, he wonders, “what do you suppose will happen when I come upon my next heat then?”

His fingers slip up and down Stiles’s exposed arm, “I suppose my jaw shall grow tired,” a twinkle in his eyes and a light smile on his lips.

Stiles’s entire body heats up, flushing most likely from head to toe as he considers all the captain is offering. He is uncertain of when the next one will strike. As a male, his heats are to be expected every three months, allowing four times a year to mate. But he has never had the chance to regulate. Between stress and fear, suppressants and natural responses to the situations he was forced into, the only heat he experienced that was even remotely typical was the one on this very ship when he was first getting to know Captain Derek Hale for all his gentleness under his gruff exterior.

Stiles watches his hand, fingers stroking through the black hairs of the man’s beard, tangling deeply enough to feel the small notches of scars and bald spots beneath the face that he presents to the world. 

He sighs, telling Derek, “perhaps next time you suck my cock you should also finger me,” shrugging, “just to experiment,” a smile twisting his lips when the very thought spikes a hint of arousal in the air. 

“Aye, aye,” Derek responds, his hand making another pass down Stiles’s arm, “so we are prepared? Should my jaw grow weary chasing your pleasure, my fingers can take over.”

“Indeed.”

“You shall have to tell me the moment something does not feel right,” his voice intends it to be an order, but his eyes are so soft in the candlelight that Stiles knows it is a plea.

“Indeed,” nodding this time as well, leaning forward to seal the deal with a press of lips to lips.

———————

Stiles deflects Derek’s advance quickly and easily, following with an empty fade to throw Derek out of his groove, but he sees it coming before Stiles can accomplish it and he sidesteps. The captain’s dull practice blade pressing downwards on Stiles’s, he shakes his head and steps back. 

Derek tells him, “the information you process with your eyes needs be acted upon handsomely. You see the slightest of movement in my stance, you respond immediately,” he passes forward then lunges, forcing Stiles to retreat. His eyebrow arched as he steps back, daring silently for Stiles to do something. 

He takes in the captain’s stance, noting where his weight is centered, the aim of his feet, the bend of his knees. One hand behind his back, the other with the sword pointed at Stiles. Stiles takes a breath, noting the playful hints of Derek’s scent. The man flirts through swords. Why does this not surprise Stiles in the least? He feels a smirk rise on his face as he advances, taking in every move the captain makes. 

There has been a small crowd beginning to gather at these morning training sessions. Oft times the voice of Erica will ring out over that of the other’s, giving Stiles quick chirps of information. Isaac occasionally making jests, while Boyd watches solemnly as though he is absorbing so much more than a human has a right to simply by keeping his eyes on the show. 

They dance the swordsman jig until they are both sweaty and panting for breath. Stiles knows that Derek holds back, of course he does, Stiles is new to this and he is a seasoned man of the sea and sword. This is training, not a death mission. But Stiles considers himself a fast learner, and he is making much progress, actually beginning to feel as though he could stand a chance should they be boarded. It is rather refreshing to have the basic know-how. Of course, he knows how to fire a pistol, he has known since he was just a boy following his father around. He also learned the way of the rifle for hunting. But swords are quite useful and easier to procure, also they never misfire.

When the mock duel is over, they bow as is customary. ’Tis Peter who steps forward, a mildly cruel sneer on his face when he tosses a real blade to Derek, “should a captain grow soft an entire crew will grow soft as well. Let us see what you have left Derek.”

It seems unfair as the captain has been at this for awhile now and Peter is fresh, but Derek nods. Examining the sword, running a finger along the blade, watching Peter with an unreadable gaze as he stands guard and awaits the incoming attack.

Stiles backs up, moving into the crowd with Erica at his right, he wonders quietly as the metal clangs together, “something that happens often?”

“The two o’ them gettin’ their alpha flowing?” she shrugs, “’tis not rare I s’pose.”

“Been awhile though,” Isaac chips in, hollering a word of praise for Derek’s advances on Peter, “Peter has his reasons.”

“And those would be?” Stiles wonders. He sees the man oft times lingering about the edges of the crew, as though he doesn’t truly belong but he has no other place to be so he has chosen to bestow the crew with his presence.

“When Peter takes the match, he gets to stroke his ego. When Derek takes the match, it gives the whole crew a reason to feel secure.”

“Scupper that,” Erica growls, cocking her head towards Peter’s stance, “strokes that man’s ego regardless who wins.”

“Peter helps Derek remember that fights aren’t always fair,” Boyd adds thoughtfully when Peter dodges and drags his sword along Derek’s arm with a warning glint in his eye.

“Navy trained Derek. Life trained Peter,” Isaac agrees softly.

It grows rather intense in the moments to come, Stiles wonders a few times how neither of them end up with their throats slit, as though they have forgotten they could truly kill each other with the sharpened blades and this is not just a game of wooden swords. He cannot stop himself admiring Derek’s physique, his quickness on his feet, and the sheer strength that emits off him. Peter is no slouch, finding clever ways to remind Derek that he is, indeed, a foe worth respecting. It only ends when Derek seems to lose his patience, twisting the blade from Peter’s hand with some fancy move that Stiles does not know the name for, sending the blade clattering across the deck as he places his tip at Peter’s throat just long enough to make it clear the match is over. 

Peter’s smirk and mock bow show he is not a humble loser, but Derek pays it no mind. Barking out the orders for everyone to return to their tasks. 

“Interestin’ as always,” Erica mumbles, leaving Stiles standing along the rail while the rest of them disperse to their given duties. 

He cannot help but notice that Peter’s focus has landed on Stiles and remained there far too long for comfort. Forcing himself not to squirm under the scrutiny, instead meeting the alpha’s eyes and holding steady. His presence is unnerving, but Derek has deemed him fit to be aboard this ship, so ’tis not Stiles’s judgment that matters. He only leaves the stare-off when Derek steps between them, wiping his face with his sleeve to track sweat over his brow. Immediately he is offering words of advice on Stiles’s technique, seemingly not noticing his uncle’s lingering presence. 

“Pay him no mind,” Derek dismisses the entire scene, a hand on Stiles’s back pressing him towards their chambers, “Peter serves mainly himself, but he serves a purpose on my crew. If I thought him rogue or mutinous, I’d deal with him accordingly.”

“So that display was simply a pissing match with fancy footwork?”

“Aye,” Derek’s eyes twinkle with amusement at the description, sliding off his weapons belt, toeing off his boots, “’tis once per journey the man grows bored of his duties and feels a need to stir up some mild trouble. Nothing to worry over.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Stiles admits, certain Derek can detect the mild dishonesty in it regardless. He only smiles in return, reaching out for Stiles’s hips to pull him against his body. Stiles has grown not only accustomed to, but quite fond of the way their bodies mold together, as though they were fitted for one another long before they met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sword stuff only exists to show us that Derek meant it when he said he'd make sure Stiles was able to defend himself with proper weapons. And also to remind us that Peter is here - not that he's going to play a very big role in this, but just a little tap, tap, I'm still lurking :) Because Peter is always lurking.


	21. No Hesitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to a mostly porn chapter...

No Hesitation

This evening started out innocently enough with talk of how Stiles would continue his education once upon the island. There are plenty more things Derek can provide for him, but now that his basic understanding of the written language is sound, his basic navigational skills are growing every day, and his theories and curiosities seem to be a never drying well. Perhaps he could study with Kira and learn military and laws that encompass Beacon Harbor. Or he could study with Laura and learn the rigging of government. Perhaps with Lydia he could learn business and societal norms. He could build boats with Finstock or bake goods with Mason. The opportunities seem endless and he seems equally interested in all of them and unable to commit to any. Which led to him interrupting the discussions by clambering into Derek’s lap and kissing him. Kissing him until his head was spinning and his heart beating so hard ’tis likely to smash through his ribcage. 

The lad hesitated not in removing their clothing. Every layer. And now he’s a naked, sweaty and writhing mess in Derek’s lap. But every time Derek’s hands begin to wander down the slope of his asscheeks, he tenses ever so slightly. They discussed this, but Derek will not move until the fear and nerves are buried in anticipation. He is quite certain that the lad will eventually just give in and tell him to get it over with, move along, haul wind. But he’s not going to. He will not enter the lad’s body with a tip of his finger, his tongue, or his cock until there is no hesitation on Stiles’s part. 

Trailing hands up over his ribs, tracing his spine with the pads of his fingers, cupping the back of his head when he bares his throat. Derek tracks his lips off of Stiles’s, creating a path across his cheekbones, sucking on his earlobe, pressing a kiss to the juncture of his jaw, down his throat as he arches into it. His back bowing deeply enough that his bare ass slips along Derek’s thigh. A movement that drags a moan from the lad’s lips. 

Derek pauses at his nipple, laves attention over the soft pink nubs that are so sensitive. As the omega decides whether the accidental drag of his ass over Derek’s thigh is a sensation worth chasing. It’s a breath’s decision as he arches back once again, bearing down to stroke himself eagerly against his thigh, then dragging forward to bump his hard cock against Derek’s. Pleasure and lust waft through the chambers, making his heart lurch. The lad is chewing on his lip when Derek aims his gaze that way. Looking down at their cocks as Derek’s hands grasp his hips. 

He shrugs with a coy expression, reaching back to gather his slick on his hand, smearing it in his palm. Derek has to breathe through his mouth to keep himself under control when the scent of him, mixed with the kiss swollen lips, and the heat of his body against his, all mingle in his senses. Adding spit to his palm, he grasps both their cocks and begins to stroke slowly, luxuriously as he arches his back, gaining a rhythm with himself for thrusting into his fist. He bumps back against Derek’s thigh again, making him moan. Derek has lost focus on doing much of anything, really. The sight is too much, the scent is intoxicating, the idea of the lad seeking pleasure in not only the typical ways they have been, but also in his omega nature is making Derek’s head spin. He can feel a look of awe on his face while he watches the expression of pure bliss, eyes closed tight, soft grunts intermingling with moans as he arches, thrusts, and strips with his hand. 

Derek’s leg seems to be the only part of him capable of moving as he bends his knee, giving the lad easier access to his thigh. Butting him up closer to his chest, giving the movements less distance to travel. Stiles groans, salaciously making Derek’s cock twitch. He bites down in the inside of his cheek, narrows his focus to something else, anything but the pleasure seeking omega in his lap. It’s too much. And he’ll make a fool of himself should he orgasm this quickly. 

Each stroke forward, the feel of his hard length against Derek’s, the tight grip of his hand, the scent of his slick, his spit, and their mingled precum is overpowering. Derek’s eyes flit to his throat. The throat that is still bared as he bounces between rubbing his ass and stroking their cocks together. His mouth waters a the sight, but he makes no moves towards so sacred of actions. Instead busying himself by pressing his hands against Stiles’s shoulder-blades, pushing his chest close enough to torture his nipples with pleasure. 

Stiles’s breath hitches. The feel of his slick on Derek’s bare skin, making his thigh feel a pleasure zone he knows it is not, but his mind is providing him with the image and it may as well be his cock for how his alpha is reacting. He takes a deep, steadying breath, flattens his palms on Stiles’s flesh, nudges his chest with his nose. The lad pulls away only to dart down to his level, seizing his lips and emitting garbled whines, moans, and uneven breaths. Derek scents the coupling between them, while he tastes the lad’s mouth, and listens to his unruly rhythms and he begins to lose his coordination. His mind beginning to slip with the chase, on the cusp of it. Derek breaks the kiss only to dive into his throat to kiss his skin, overtop the highest of bite scars as he reaches to wrap his hand around Stiles’s on their cocks, guiding his tugs when he loses the jig and his focus lies solely on riding Derek’s thigh as his omega becomes too powerful to fight. Derek’s breath hitches when he feels it streaming down his thigh and gathering in his groin, when the gates seem to open not only to the physicality of it, but also the mental and emotional space where Stiles can feel ever so free to chase his pleasure, to feel no shame, no embarrassment. 

The lad’s mouth has gone slack, his breathing ragged, the pale expanse of his neck bared and at Derek’s mouth. But he feels no urge to bite, no urge to mark, no urge to take something that has not been given with explicit permission. He feels himself smile against the warmth of him, as the lad’s entire body seizes with pleasure, his back arching, his heart pausing in his chest, breath too much to hold in and too much to let out, his muscles rigid as he crests that wave on Derek’s upstroke. 

Derek releases his cock when he’s milked him through it, quickly finishing stripping his own and nearly going into shock when the scents hit him full on as his face turns downward to watch. Stiles’s breath hitches, a new round of lust blasting through the chambers as Derek watches his long, sinful fingers slather Derek’s cum across his swirled tips, down the creases of his knuckles before his hand disappears behind him presumably to slip a finger into himself. Judging by the sound, the way his voice vibrates as though he is on the cusp of death, and the scent of newly found joy rising. His head falls forward, landing heavily on Derek’s shoulder, breath soft puffs against his sweat soaked skin. 

He hums a soft, contented, and exhausted sound. Derek rumbles in return. Splaying his hands wide over the omega’s lower back as it arches, tilting his pelvis towards his finger stroking his insides. Derek breathes in the skin of him, the combined scents of them, and the pure emotions rolling off the lad making his chest swell with pride. There is no rush in the lad’s movements, no chasing of a second orgasm, and his cock is not stirring. Nay, his explorations be rather methodical as though he is mapping out a part of his physiology he’s never before. With curiosity and slight hunger. Understanding now with the simple act of rubbing off on Derek’s thigh that he can achieve a much deeper satisfaction. Allowing himself to give in, it’s quite the blessing and though he has far to go in his journey beyond the Demon Wolf’s bilge, it feels in the air that he is one step closer. 

Derek tilts his head to rest his lips against Stiles’s temple, the one part of him that he seems completely unable to control is the endless streams of rumbles he is emitting against Stiles’s body. Rumbles of comfort, safety, satisfaction, and approval as the omega rocks back gently on his own finger. 

“I,” he gasps, swallows hard and does not finish his thought vocally.

“Hmm?” Derek kisses his temple, nudges him out of his hiding place, “speak it, please,” urging.

His face is flushed a rose pink, his eyes glazed with pleasure, and his smile is shy as he searches Derek’s eyes for any hint of unease or dissatisfaction. Derek feels his lips lift into a gentle smile, a rumble rising from deep in his chest.

Stiles flushes ever more deeply, this time with passion instead of embarrassment, “I should very much like to use your finger next time,” he admits, adjusting to pull his finger out with a whine, taking hold of Derek’s hand and guiding it to his rear.

“Are you certain the time is now?”

His lower lip gets tucked quickly against his teeth, the nod immediate, “indeed,” one eyebrow arches suggestively as he tips his chin downward, drawing both of their attentions to the sight of their cocks stirring back to life. 

Derek grins at the sight, having been so enraptured by Stiles’s bold explorations that he’d not even given any mind to his own body. Stiles’s face falls into softness upon the presentation of Derek’s grin. His hand rising to stroke along his jaw, cupping his chin to get the proper angle on a tender kiss. A lingering breath in and out, as his lips purse and press, as he sinks further into Derek’s lap, entire body glistening with sweet and exhaustion sparking back towards lust. 

Derek takes a deep heavenly breath through his nose, letting his hand fall to Stiles’s asscheek. The lad’s scent remains the same, his body doesn’t tense away, he only arches back. Allowing easier access as Derek traces the cleft of his ass. 

“You must speak if,” his voice is hoarse, and barely a whisper.

“If anything is amiss, aye,” Stiles finishes for him, leaning forehead to forehead. He moves to sling his leg over Derek’s when Derek lowers his thigh, making room for him to straddle his lap completely. His breath is deep, his kiss is quick and his nod is assuring. 

Derek’s heart suspends itself in the blood rushing though his body, deafening him and overpowering his vision with spots as he traces the pad of his index finger ‘round Stiles’s rim. A soft whimpering sound parts the lad’s lips, rocking ever so slightly towards his finger. Tilting his head back to look up at Stiles. His face aimed ceiling ward now, lips parted, sweat shimmering across his brow. His scent remaining calm and lustful. Feeling Derek’s gaze on him, he tips his chin, gaining eye contact. The exact last piece of permission Derek needs, he slips his finger into the wet, soft heat of him. Stiles’s eyes grow wide before rolling shut as Derek sinks his finger to the knuckle, finding his prostate first and rubbing across it gently. Stiles’s lips part again, then smack together quickly and he utters a curse as he sensuously rolls his hips, cock bouncing against Derek’s belly, nudging insistently at his own cock that has fully hardened at the rushing passion once again. The alpha side of him is more than pleased to feel the texture of his own cum already inside Stiles. A tiny niggling want to gather more of it and press it deep inside him, ’tis easy to stifle that urge as he surges forward to press open mouthed kisses over the lad’s throat that is once again bared. 

Stiles’s hands are pressing so tight to Derek’s back that he’s certain to have marks there when they are done, but he minds not. Feeling himself smile against flesh when the lad cries out, the hip roll turning more eager whilst he completely loses himself once again in chasing the release. 

“Derek, I,” his breath catches, holds and chokes off when his hips seem to snap of their own volition, “if it please, if it, if you,” his words trail off on a whimper when Derek removes his finger. Needing a moment for the lad to calm, to gather his wits, and find the words he is seeking. His chest expands with a deep breath, heart fluttering rather rapidly. He whines at the loss of Derek’s finger, he takes a second deep breath. His eyes moving beneath his closed lids when he tips his chin, a third deep breath and they open. So clear and so deep, a honeyed sea of rum that Derek would eagerly bathe himself in for the rest of his life. He squirms ever so slightly under the scrutiny, gathers his wits and very eagerly announces, “it would please me deeply if you would add another finger,” then he darts into Derek’s mouth, crushing him with kisses, his tongue quickly entering as soon as Derek opens, pillaging his mouth of grunted moans when his hand drops from Derek’s shoulder to grasp his cock between them.

Derek is never one to turn down such a polite request, but he begins his ministrations with only one finger. Wanting the lad to have all the time to reconsider as he traces his rim with his middle finger. Gathering slick slowly to dampen it. There’s a stunted breath as he passes just the tip of it against the side of his index finger, allowing the warning and waiting for Stiles to nod before as gently as possible passing it in alongside his first finger. His free hand strokes down Stiles’s side, stilling his fingers inside of him, waiting for him to adjust accordingly, waiting for him to rock back of his own free will, waiting for him to relax and open. 

He does not query if it is too much, instead he uses his scent and his breathing and his vocalizations to guide the way. The lad sighs, nudging against Derek’s forehead with his own, taking from him a slow sensuous kiss while he adjusts. Derek remains still, only chasing the swipes of the omega’s tongue as his hand strokes languidly the length of Derek’s cock and he finally rolls his hips. A gasp bubbling from his throat, passing through his mouth and flowing across Derek’s tongue. It makes his cock twitch and once again he feels he could quite easily make a fool of himself if he does not distract himself.

The pads of his fingers circle tenderly over the lad’s prostate, working his way deeper with every roll of his hips until he makes slow contact with his omega gland. It releases a syrupy, thick, and glorious scent and Stiles grinds down against Derek’s hand, a pitched moan escaping him, head tossed back, throat bared. Derek watches the chords of his neck, the pale, nearly translucent flesh there ‘neath the scars of others. His eyes well with tears he will not shed, not now, he will not allow himself to be anchored down with the sadness of Stiles’s past. Instead, he will revel in the beauty of this moment. This one right now, while the lad is showing nothing but trust and comfort in their engagement. While he is seeking pleasure in Derek and allowing his omega to be caressed and cherished. He is not fighting his nature nor ashamed of it. He is not weighing himself down with past horrors, he is simply embracing this feeling and possibly new found freedom. 

Derek wants to do something daft, like profess his love, beg the lad for his hand, request that he mate. Instead he leans his face against Stiles’s throat, breathing him in, lingering there long enough to center himself and focus solely on caressing that gland, with every pass there is further release of slick, and molasses thickness of scent in the air. Stiles is writhing against him, his hips doing most of the work, his moans growing ever more broken. Breath halting as his grip tightens on Derek’s cock, his hand gaining purpose. Lip tucked tight against his teeth for only a moment before his lips part again, his forehead crashing into Derek’s when his entire body seems to just give. As though his strings have been cut and he has nothing left but whispered command of, “now,” and that simply, with one single word, a heavenly scent, and a pliant omega in his arms and under his touch, Derek reaches orgasm in Stiles’s grip as the lad twitches and rides his own at the same time. Whilst he clenches in rhythmic patterns around Derek’s fingers, he removes the middle, leaving the index inside of him to stroke gently through the aftershocks. When Stiles sighs a deep, heavy gasp, Derek stills his motions. 

Awaiting the lad to tilt his head, to seize his lips once more. A lazy exploration into Derek’s mouth he leads as he strokes Derek’s cum up and down their abdomens with his free hand. Something that makes Derek rumble deeply, to which Stiles responds with a hum and draws back from the kiss. His eyes alight with joy and fogged with pleasure, he cocks his head the general vicinity behind him and admits, “I would not object should you feel so inclined to leave that finger there for a moment longer.”

Derek grins, pressing his hand into Stiles’s back to hold him close as Stiles stretches his arms out behind them, then folds them to encompass Derek in an embrace. He lingers there, his eyes taking in all the lines of Derek’s face from such a close distance. As though he can see through the beard, beyond that hair to the scars beneath, his fingers sliding back and forth, back and forth, on his back, dipping into the scars there that he has memorized already. Rose pink cheeks, blood red lips, snow white skin and a gleam in his eye that Derek is more than pleased to see.

He emits a long-suffering sigh, “the pillows are much too far away and my head is much to heavy.”

“Are you suggesting I do something to remedy that?”

“I am certainly suggesting that, Captain,” his lips rise to a full grin that stirs butterflies in Derek’s belly. He’s quite likely to promise the lad anything and everything should he continue to see that type of happiness on his face.

At the loss of Derek’s finger, he whines, sighs, and blames it on the creaking ship. Derek chuckles at that, tucking them both safely away in the bedding. His intention to tuck the lad into his own blanket and allow for a layer between their naked bodies, is thwarted when he takes Derek’s arm immediately wrapping it ‘round his chest and shuffling until there is no space between them. Linking their hands, bringing them to rest in front of his face, taking deep lungfuls of Derek’s wrist. There is most likely a scenario trying to invade his mind, a memory knocking at his gate, a horror lapping at his bow that he is drowning in Derek’s scent instead of speaking of. Derek will not force him to speak, will only listen when the lad should decide on his own that words are necessary. 

Instead he leans into him, tucking himself around him and no longer stifling a single rumble. Watching drowsily as Stiles begins to fade, eyes drifting shut for longer with each passing blink. Breaths growing more shallow, the sweet scent of sleep beginning to rise off him. Derek presses his lips against his bare shoulder, whispering a word of gratitude before he settles in and follows his omega handsomely into dreams.


	22. If You'll Have Me

If You’ll Have Me

Stiles wakes before Derek. With varying bodily fluids dried and making his flesh feel tight, flaking off in places, still sticky in some of the points of contact between them; he feels the slut that he’s so often been accused of being. The breath seems to catch in his throat that is suddenly too tight when he attempts to take in the scent of his sleeping alpha. With their entwined fingers right in front of his eyes, he watches intently though the vision in which is blurring at the edges. Attempting a second breath doesn’t make it beyond his throat either. 

He senses it the moment Derek stirs behind him, most likely waking to the scent of his weak, anxious and daft bedmate.

“Stiles,” it rumbles in his chest, vibrating through Stiles’s ribcage. His fingers tighten in the grip they’ve got on each other, “Stiles,” again, with a string of soothing rumbles following for moments, possibly hours, or an entire day before the constriction in Stiles’s throat and the arrhythmic beating of his heart, the blurring of his vision and tingles in his fingertips begin to subside. 

He gasps a watery sigh, tears having sprung to his eyes, “I must be coming upon my heat,” his voice shakes, “’tis the only explanation for the way I comported myself last eve.”

The rumble turns sharp, lengthens and deepens into a growl, “Stiles,” this time a command. One that his nature dictate he listen to, one that has his insides quaking with the desire to please, to turn his head and give the alpha his eye contact that he is demanding with only one word. He closes his eyes tight, liquid gathering, pinching out between his lids. Refusing to look back. Though he should, not only because of his nature but also because he has no reason to mistrust the captain.

Derek sighs heavily, adjusting himself, jostling Stiles’s disgusting body in the process and making him cry out. Not in pain, rather embarrassment at his state. ’Tis his duty to clean them, and he failed.

The captain’s fingers are gentle, but demanding when they grasp Stiles’s chin, turning his face to look his way, “open your eyes,” coaxing with softness in his voice. 

Stiles shakes his head as well as he can given the position he’s in.

Derek sighs again, nudging his nose against Stiles’s, lingering there right by his face as he whispers, “the way in which you comported yourself last eve was beautiful,” it’s honest, it’s breathy, and there’s a sharp sweetness in the scent of him that Stiles would possibly label as reverence were he to label it, were he to believe the captain or anyone for that matter could be capable of feeling that way about a tarnished thing like himself, “you are beautiful,” nosing along his jaw, pressing a kiss to his throat. Stiles can’t quite stifle the whine that reverberates through his vocal chords that are against Derek’s lips, “please believe me when I say you comported yourself with dignity, with tenderness, and with exactly the amount of demand that I am more than gloriously happy to oblige,” there’s a smile in his voice. His lips are trailing down to the dip below his Adam’s Apple as he speaks, breath rising goosebumps along Stiles’s flesh, “please believe me when I say that was the most pleasing manner in which you could ever comport yourself. If you are pleased, I am pleased. I am more than pleased, I may as well have been loaded to the gunwales off your scent alone, I would have happily walked the plank last night after having you in my arms in such a manner, and I’d’ve sunk to the depths of Davy Jones’s locker a happy, happy man,” his chuckle is soft, followed by a series of rumbles that speak the words he’s just spoken, just in case Stiles didn’t hear them then his alpha will make ever certain that the omega hears him; as he trails across Stiles’s collarbones with kisses, only stopping to rest his chin on his sternum. His beard tickling along his path, making Stiles shudder. His hands have come up to press gently on Stiles’s shoulder until he leans to his back, but refuses to open his eyes just yet. Derek traces circles that Stiles believes to be the Triskelion, the family crest, the symbol on the Hale flag and adorned upon the ship herself, the one that is inked between the man’s shoulders. Stiles quivers at the thought that he is making such meaningful, yet invisible, marks on Stiles’s flesh, “you are truly and honestly a wonder, Stiles,” voice breathy and awe-filled forcing Stiles to open his eyes. His gaze dares to dart across Derek’s face, where his eyes are twinkling with truths, with joy, and with something very akin to love. And yes, while Stiles did already profess his love for the man, and Derek responded in all the ways Stiles has yearned for, ’tis not a thing they are going to speak freely of. ’Tis not something they need be reminded of often, or at least Stiles doesn’t think it is. But then Derek smiles softly, traces a line with his fingertip over Stiles’s lips and utters, “I love you so,” and damn it if Stiles’s entire body doesn’t suddenly feel as though it is up in the clouds.

He’s fairly certain he answers with a whine that he will have to deny later, but for now he is much too busy tugging on the captain to get him where he can reach his lips to plant kisses that for now will have to suffice as all words have escaped him. 

———————

The heat does strike. It strikes once upon the mainland again. In the time they’ve been here, Stiles has more than once heard both Laura and Talia refer to Stiles as Derek’s mate. And Derek doesn’t bother correcting them! It felt wonderful and terrifying and made him twinge with loneliness for his dad when they welcomed him to the estate and the family with open arms. Laura was eager to take him under her wing and teach him the ropes of her title position. She’s admitted that while she loves the public appearances and the dealings with the citizens of Beacon Harbor it is the behind the scenes work that she finds despicable. Of course it is the so called behind the scenes things that Stiles finds more intriguing than watching Laura making business dealings with other leaders of the community, and the idea of speaking so openly and welcomingly in front of groups of people terrifies him. 

It is after a long day of following Laura around that Derek enters their chamber, smelling of sweat and saltwater, making Stiles whine high in his throat. Derek’s eyes smolder from across the candlelit chambers at the noise that Stiles will blame on his boots or some other object in the room, but Derek quickly covers the distance and seals his mouth over Stiles’s before any words can exit. Swooping into his mouth, until his knees are weak and he is clinging to Derek’s blouse to keep himself on his feet. Derek’s hands flat on the small of his back, pressing their bellies close. It spreads like lightning through Stiles’s body, and straight to his most private bits, every part of him feeling hot liquid. 

Derek breaks the kiss only to bow his head, a tender smile on his face, a flush high on his cheekbones, “your heat will be upon you sooner rather than later, and we shall prepare.”

“Prepare?” Stiles licks his lips, thinking this sooner is now. 

“Should you be comfortable here?”

“Where else would I go?” his fingers tighten on Derek’s blouse, turning white, a film of sweat immediately beading on his forehead at the thought that Derek is sending him away to do this alone, or perhaps sending him to the whore house, or…

“Would you be more comfortable aboard the Triskelion? As it is the place we have bedded down most often. And she is in the harbor. There is no one else aboard. It would be just the two of us.”

Stiles whines again, gods that is irritating, and feels Derek’s embrace tighten just a minuscule amount but enough to urge the words out of him, “I don’t believe I,” he trails off, thinking it over for a moment, then deciding his thought process is something that Derek must be made aware of should they survive this heat with the pleasure he would like to provide for the omega, “there is a problem with the Triskelion being a ship and I have horrid memories of being in heat on a ship, with the rocking of the water and the,” a hard swallow, he can nearly feel the scars upon his own flesh when his Adam’s Apple bobs. Derek’s eyes remain on his, and only on his, affording him the strength he need, “but I suppose the heat I experienced onboard your ship was quite honestly the most comfortable one I have ever, and perhaps being in a chamber that smells so strongly of us as one would be more appealing than even here where it surely smells like us but not as deeply just yet. And here there would be the possibility of interruptions or,” he can feel a flush rising in his cheeks, “wandering ears,” he whispers it. 

Derek’s face is responding with all the words he seems to be lost of. He’s quite intently listening not only to what is exiting Stiles’s lips but also his heartbeat, certainly he is focusing on scents, “while the walls are as sound-proofed as can be,” he rumbles in his chest, forcing Stiles’s eyes to roll shut without his permission, “t’would be no bother to gather food and drink for the duration, and row to the Triskelion should you desire. 'Tis your decision, though it should be,” his face drops to lean his nose against Stiles’s neck, taking a deep inhale of him, “made soon. The decision, that is,” he sounds half gone already just off the scent.

Stiles feels a pang of worry in his belly, wondering now if they should stay here, if it were possible for a man like Derek to lose control, should he shout out there would be someone to hear it and perhaps come to his rescue should he need it.

Derek raises his head as Stiles opens his eyes. His eyes are clear, his pupils a little dilated. The query, the only one that matters, is whether or not Stiles trusts this man. This alpha. All those months ago when he first freed Stiles of his shackles, when he unbound him from all the rigging and he cared for him in ways he was not obligated to do. All those months ago when Stiles went into heat and Derek did nothing but comfort, ease his pain, and his mind. It would have been so easy to stake his claim, to take the wounded omega as a slave, to imprison him forever with just a simple bite or a knot. And Derek did no such thing. Instead he decided to build trust, confidence, and independence. To build a relationship, love, and understanding. 

Stiles shudders, watching Derek’s eyes watching his own, feeling the heat of his chest against him, the tenderest of rumbles passing between them, “the Triskelion, Captain. Most certainly,” he breathes and feels nothing of a pain in his stomach or a stabbing in his chest at having served himself on a platter to an alpha, in a place where no one can hear him should he scream. But Stiles knows, he knows well, that even if screams were to be heard t‘would be rare for anyone to save him should he need it. The only question here is should he need saving? And the answer, the answer written in every hue of Derek’s eyes is no. Stiles has already been saved. By the man’s tenderness and patience. By his own stubbornness and will to survive. He will never need to be saved from Derek. Of this he is certain.

———————

As he watches the captain’s hands on the oars, the way the moonlight twinkles and dances off the surface of the sea raising diamonds of the finest quality all around them, Stiles feels a butterfly’s wing of anticipation in his stomach. There are nerves, there is a minuscule amount of fear and trepidation as he feels the heat moving through his body. Beginning to tingle in his groins, sweat lingering on his upper lip, his chest and cheeks flushed. 

His eyes follow the lines of Derek’s muscled arms, the taut lines of his forearms as he rows the galley. Every flex of his biceps through the sweat drenched worn-thin fabric of his blouse. Gods, he is not of this world in his beauty. The moonlight dips into every valley of him, making him seem to glow from within. It clings to his eyes, reflecting every possibility they’ve spoken of and so many they’ve not, yet are lingering right there in front of him and behind them on the island, laid out for miles upon miles in the endless Sea. 

Stiles shudders when the galley butts up against the hull of the Triskelion where she’s anchored in the Harbor. She is vast and something more than just a few pieces of timber and some sails. She is where their love story began. Where it shall continue to flourish. 

———————

Inside their chambers the scent of them together enters Stiles’s nostrils, liquid heat surging through his groins, it should be embarrassing how quickly his omega responds to this. It should be something he should be attempting to hide. It should be something that makes him want to cower. And months ago, weeks ago, it was. But now, when the scent of it meets Derek’s alpha behind him, the man rumbles low and approving in his chest, his hands sweeping along Stiles’s sides soothingly. 

Stiles tilts his head, allowing the cord of his neck to entice Derek into his space. He’s not disappointed when the captain comes forward to lean his face in, to press kisses along his scarred neck, his shoulder. His hand slowly moving the collar of his blouse aside, revealing each inch of flesh slowly, his lips tracing the lines as he exposes them. He only stops when the blouse is pulled close to his neck on the other side, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, not wanting to remind him of being in any way bound. Of this, Stiles is certain. 

Derek leans out, taking a tender hold on Stiles’s hips to turn him in the circle of his arms. Gazing upon his eyes, with only the reflections of the few lamps lit Stiles can still see so much there. So much that he can’t put the words upon, only a shallow vibration in his chest in mimicry of what Derek provides him. The captain understands the guttural language they speak from deep inside themselves, and he nods, a gentling smile on his lips, hands slowly moving to take Stiles’s where they’ve come to rest on the man’s chest. He brings them both to his lips, leaving them there to breathe some deep, heavy breaths, taking in the scents of them together mingled with the salt of the Sea and the cooling air of the night around them. It is still warm, heavy with humidity, but bearable even in heat. 

Derek links their fingers, suddenly looking as though he is uncertain of his next move. Imagine that! The captain, brave and sturdy and reliable captain is uncertain! Stiles feels himself begin to smile as Derek clears his throat, “perhaps we should eat…”

“Scupper that you fool,” Stiles growls, throwing himself into Derek’s arms and against his lips, dragging him backwards with him towards the bedding whilst dragging his blouse off his big brutish shoulders and attempting to wrap his legs ‘round his hips. Derek’s chuckle does nothing but rise yearning in Stiles’s chest, finally gathering the hint Stiles has been dropping and grasping his thighs in his hands to allow the boost he needs to fully wrap himself ‘round the captain. Circling his shoulders with his arms, hands messing his braid, knocking his hat to the ground with a thunk. Stiles’s pelvis is already taking it upon itself to grind, his cock hardening handsomely, the alpha’s doing the same. 

When Derek fails to lay him on the bedding quickly enough, Stiles tosses his weight towards it, effectively knocking him off balance to land with a grunted laugh against his lips, holding plenty of Stiles’s weight while also keeping himself aloft enough to not crush him. His face buried in Stiles’s neck when they land, “woe is me,” Stiles purrs, “I seem to have fallen upon a bed of feathers and silk, and I must feel this on my bare skin immediately,” his fingers are a bit too clumsy for how much his mind is skipping ahead and wanting to feel Derek’s fingers inside him while his sinful mouth sucks him off and his palm cups his balls. A shudder racks his bones and Derek grins when he raises his head to smooth Stiles’s sweat dampened hair off his forehead.

Eyes tender, nose nudging against his, hands dropping to begin slowly unbuttoning buttons. Stiles flops his arms and legs open and sighs, “do not dare slow this down, I am going to crawl out of my skin and you are taking your sweet time as though these buttons are made from the finest china, and…” oh gods, he interrupts himself with a whine when he thrashes and his buttocks rub along the hard length of Derek’s meaty thigh.

“You are not going to crawl out of your skin, Stiles,” he responds rather matter-of-factly.

“How could you know for certain? Have you not heard of omegas going heat mad? Have you not heard of,” oh gods there is that whiney moan again when Derek, this time on purpose, drags his thigh along the curve of Stiles’s ass. He can feel the slick gathering in his channel and beginning to seep out. His lip getting tucked into his teeth as he bites back another noise he’s certain he’d be embarrassed of if he wasn’t going heat mad.

“There is no such thing as heat madness.”

“Are you certain? Because I am,” he pants, reaching for Derek this time, both hands gripping his hips and angling him to a better position for that rub to drag a deep moan from his throat, his pelvis rocking now with no shame against the captain’s thigh, “I am certain to go mad if you take any longer with that one single button.”

His retaliation is to pinch a nipple through the fabric, rolling it between his fingers and making Stiles writhe with it, his cock twitching and leaking precum already. 

“This will be rather embarrassing if I cum in my pants so early in the,” gods, that noise in his throat, it is, well, it is, “is there a name for that noise, Derek?”

“Hmm,” his face has been hidden in Stiles’s neck, breathing to rise goosebumps, pressing lips through bristled beard, nose dragging along the lines of his throat that he must have bared at some point. Most likely immediately. 

“Pay no mind to me, Captain, I shall continue to whine moan as you breathe on me and I shall just,” he grinds his ass against Derek’s thigh, Derek’s hand slips under his blouse. The pad of an index finger smoothing over his nipple, thumb following close behind, circling the nub and then pinching and rolling and that is just the last push that Stiles needs to jump off that ledge and fall face-first into the white heat of orgasm. His vision blurs, stars and a moon colliding in his lids, falling to a sparkling ocean beneath , rolling on a cresting wave and breaking upon shore. His body becomes nothing more than a mess of sweat, slick and cum; skin and tissues but no bones. There are no bones left in his body when he comes down and finds himself on the bedding with his godforsaken shirt finally unbuttoned down to his breeches, Derek’s mouth and tongue creating a trail down his sternum, stopping in his belly button and lingering there. 

“I should,” Stiles’s voice is breathy and sounds so far away, he’s certain he must be on that moon that just collided with the stars and fell into the ocean. He’s not certain, however, if he should apologize for that being over so quickly or if he should offer to clean up, or the man was hungry for the love of gods! And Stiles just attacked him.

Derek’s face rises so suddenly, lingering over him and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, stroking a hand through his hair, “you should stay. Here. Right how you are. And allow me to gather sustenance, a wash basin, and some rags.”

“No, you should,” Derek is getting further away from him. Stiles’s hand rises from his side, swipes through the air and cannot reach the captain’s shoulders as he walks away, “you should not do those things. Those things are,” his voice trails off, realizing that it does not matter what he tells the alpha, the alpha is going to cater to Stiles’s every need. And this alpha, this one, is going to treat him as though he is something precious, something beautiful, something worth worshiping. Oh, and he’s apparently going to remove Stiles’s shoes for him and rub the arches of his feet when he sits back down on the bed. The food smells amazing, it smells of all the sweet fruits that Stiles had not a chance to consume during their first visit to the Harbor, when he allowed his self-pity to cloud his mind and he did the unthinkable. The very thought of it sours his mouth and turns his stomach.

Derek stops in his movements, eyebrows dipping slightly in concern, “is this pleasing?”

“Yes! Of course, I was merely thinking,” nudging Derek’s forearm with his unoccupied foot.

“Avast with the thinking,” the corner of his mouth lifts into a smile, his hands back at the foot rubbing. Firm yet gentle, enough to make Stiles whimper and crane his head to get the most perfect angle on Derek’s features in the candlelight.

He pauses his ministrations only to reach for a piece of juicy, sweet, and sinful pineapple. Rubbing the small wedge of it along Stiles’s lower lip until he opens his mouth and allows Derek to feed him. Eyes not leaving his until his lids roll shut with the taste on his tongue and the moan that rises in his throat. 

“Ye best be warned Captain Hale,” he sighs, a smile playing on his face as he props his head with a bent arm behind him to gaze upon the man’s face intently, “I could grow accustomed to this spoilery.”

“We most certainly would not want that,” Derek responds, eyes twinkling with amusement, hands only growing more certain in his motions while his smile becomes rather smug. 

———————

The three days spent aboard the Triskelion in the fever grip of heat are like nothing Stiles has ever experienced before. The captain never takes more than what is being offered, at times even slowing it down, turning Stiles away from where his omega mind is leading them. Soothing him with hands upon his flesh and kisses on his neck, the rumbles in his chest seem to be never-ending. His words are few, but his noises are continuous to allow Stiles’s mind to focus solely on him and never stray to the bilge of the Demon Wolf. 

It all seems so rather dreamlike that when it finally subsides, and Stiles comes back to full wake in the eve of the third day, the realization that Derek looks positively wrecked settles in his brain and starts to crawl up his limbs. _Wrecked._ ’Tis not something Stiles expected to see, not upon a man so strong as Derek Hale. Not upon an alpha. He wiggles until he is fully facing the captain in their bed, reaching a shaking and exhausted hand out to stroke through his beard. Even his beard is wrecked. Hair matted, sticking in every which way. Stiles’s finger traces along a deep divot of a scar beneath the hair on his jaw. His eyes flutter open. Purely exhausted mist over the deep hues of his naturally sparked seafarer eyes. He smiles softly, grumbling something that Stiles is certain to be a query of his needs.

Stiles watches his thumb stroke over the man’s cheekbones, “you need not worry over me, Derek, you have provided me with much and more,” he whispers it, wanting not to disturb the sleep that is settling over the captain’s expression, his eyes closing once again under the touch of Stiles’s hand. 

As he gazes upon Derek, watching him slowly sinking into sleep. He attempts, very valiantly to fight it and Stiles knows it is for his benefit. The alpha wanting to make certain his mate is sleeping, content, blissful, and floating atop a cloud next to him before he makes a move so selfish to sleep himself. Stiles feels all those things, most notably blissful. With Derek’s arms warm, wrapped ‘round him loosely to allow him room to escape should he so choose. His legs tangled with his, belly relaxed with sleep now, the deep breaths he takes making it round enough to brush against Stiles’s. His chest vibrating, exiting soothing, rhythmic sleep rumbles meant to call the omega alongside him into relaxation. 

Stiles is relaxed, his body sated, his mind thick and hazy but no longer searching for the one thing it has been so focused on throughout this heat. Now, now is the time to revel in it. To take in the scents of them, of content, bliss, joy, and comfort. There is most certainly a part of Stiles that is very much looking forward to mating with this man. Perhaps the time shall come sooner rather than later. After these days of allowing Derek to pleasure him, trusting him in his weakest state. The alpha never once making Stiles feel needy or weak, never feeling lesser than him, never feeling wanton or cheap. Nay, instead Derek made him feel ever so treasured, revered, and loved. The intensity with which he gazed upon Stiles’s flesh made him feel as though he was the most valuable asset in the Sea and upon drylands alike. The beauty in his expressions as he kissed the tips of his fingers, the palms of his hands, the soft vulnerable places like his wrists, neck, belly, inner thighs; the softness in his fingertips as they trailed over every dip and curve of Stiles’s body; the exuberance of his kisses when Stiles’s mind was too buzzing with heat to process anything beyond need and want, the way he slowed him with his hands when his motions became too desperate. All the while never taking. He never took a thing. Never even attempted to steer Stiles’s hands or face or bottom towards his cock. Things that perhaps, Stiles should have done of his own volition, but he felt no need, no pressure, to please the captain. He scented the man’s pleasure in the air along with his own, still very much in awe that the alpha can reach his own climax simply from pouring over Stiles’s body so generously. 

“Captain Derek Hale,” he whispers softly, nearly pressed against his lips, to which the captain only stirs enough to emit a very deep, resounding rumble that Stiles knows translates to ‘this will only wake me if it is an emergency’. Smiling when he tangles his fingers in the glorious beard beneath them, “I love you and I believe someday it shall be your bite to bond us, we shall remain together and live a long happily ever after,” his feeble attempt to melt and seep into the captain’s skin fails, instead he settles for plastering himself against every possible inch of him while he adds, “if you’ll have me,” nudging his face against his throat to settle in for the night.


	23. Spoken And Unspoken Promises

Spoken And Unspoken Promises

Derek typically finds himself quite taken by every word that parts the lips of the omega who is currently gesticulating whilst he speaks, pacing back and forth across their chambers. But tonight, he is having trouble focusing on the lad’s narrative. He’s taking in enough words to know that he is simply speaking of his day, and how dull he finds certain tasks, but he’s always been that way, nothing holds his attention for long. Derek’s mind is wandering, not because he finds this boring, but because he needs to speak to Stiles about an upcoming opportunity that he’d be daft to turn down, and he is quite nervous about how he will react. 

Stiles finally stops, his eyes flitting across Derek’s face where he has sat down at the desk to remove his boots and overcoat. He had to be dressed today to join in meetings, a task he abhors. He’s a man of fresh air, free movement, and action. He is not a man of politics. 

A hand rises to the lad’s lips, chewing on the tip of his thumb, deep in thought for a moment before he admits, “perhaps I shall be a jack of all trades,” seemingly deflating slightly as he plops down on the bedding, “and a master of none.”

“T’would suit you,” Derek responds. Mildly absently, but true.

“Being a master of none?”

“Your mind is very active. Not meant to be weighed down with the monotony of a single task daily.”

Chewing on his lip now instead of the tip of his finger, his face twists in disgust and a small burst of the scent of blood blooms in the chambers. 

“However,” Derek feels himself smiling fondly, “perhaps you should acquire a nervous habit that does not involve chewing your fingers and your lips raw.”

Stiles’s eyes light up with intent, pulling himself up off the bedding and sauntering over to Derek, only to lower himself in his lap, face level with his own, mischief glinting in the bumbo depths of his irises, “and what would you suggest, Captain?”

Derek finds his hands rising, immediately landing on Stiles’s hips, holding loosely, “you are quite welcome to use whatever part of my body that fascinates you, but I must have a chat with you beforehand.”

“Oh?” he recoils a bit, his scent souring slightly with embarrassment.

Derek runs a soothing hand down his back, “no boundaries have been overstepped here,” he assures him, “’tis simply a discussion of business.”

“Oh?” a pink blush creeps into his cheeks, his fidgeting fingers finding Derek’s buttons on his blouse. Poking one through the eyelet and back, buttoning and unbuttoning only to button again. 

Derek takes a deep breath, quite certain of what the omega will decide when he is presented with his options, but uncertain of whether it would be for the right reasons, “I have been given the opportunity to travel to the American Main. The simple business of trades, if you will, and a very important passenger shall join us there, we have been tasked with providing her passage here.”

“Oh?” his lip gets tucked into his teeth.

“Perhaps you have lost the ability to make coherent sentences?” Derek grins in a teasing manner.

Stiles swats his chest, rolls his eyes, “I am simply attempting to do a thing called listening. The part you typically do, but I should perhaps become better at this particular part of discussion.”

Derek snorts, to which Stiles laughs, flushing slightly, his hand rising to motion at Derek to continue speaking. But as soon as Derek opens his mouth, Stiles cuts him off with, “one of the things I very much appreciate about you, Captain. You actually listen. The majority of the time. You are the very first person in my life who has allowed me to speak endlessly, and it does not count when you fall asleep as my lips are still moving. Simply means you never gave up on my chatter, only that sleep became too strong.”

Derek opens his mouth to reply, and this time he is cut off by Stiles’s lips sealing over his. He laughs into the kiss, slides a hand over the back of the omega’s head, fingering his hair at the nape of his neck as he allows the lad to search and find the comfort or pleasure or excitement he is seeking before he pulls back. His eyes slightly glazed, the room smelling of arousal without desperation as of yet. 

“You were talking, Sir?”

Grunting out a sigh, attempting to stifle his grin at the lad’s conversational tactics, “my query, Sir, if you’d allow me to…”

“Sir?” Stiles outright laughs at that, “please, never again Captain. It makes me feel old to be called sir. And let us face it now, I shall never be dignified enough to a sir.”

“And now you know how it feels.”

“Sneaky. I shall leave the respectable terms to your crew. And the people of Beacon Harbor.”

Derek nods, quite certain his face is going to hurt from smiling so much by the end of this eve, attempts once again to finish his thoughts, “I am wondering, Dear…”

Stiles’s raucous laughter cuts him off once again, “no, no never dear, please, I shall never be someone’s dear!” he presses a quick kiss against Derek’s mouth to soften the blow.

“Perhaps Beloved,” he grins, assuming Stiles will shoot this one with a canon as well, but something soft threatens his expression, his mouth falls open for a moment with wonder.

He takes a moment to gather his words, which Derek takes as a good sign, his sinful fingers toying with Derek’s braid as he watches his mouth, perhaps awaiting more conversation. Instead, he repeats, “Beloved,” seemingly savoring it on the tip of his tongue. Then he nods, “I suppose it is quite true that in your eyes I am much loved.”

“Indeed,” Derek rumbles his response. The scent of comfort, love, and desire all rise up off the omega, a sweet intoxication that Derek would spend his life chasing should Stiles allow him.

“Then I believe I shall answer quite eagerly to Beloved,” he leans his forehead against Derek’s, one hand still tangled in his braid, the other lying palm-down on his chest, right over the beating of his heart. With his face still pressed to Derek’s, he announces, “I shall also be boarding the Triskelion with you. It has been months since you have weighed anchor and I knew you would not last much longer upon this solid mass of land what with the way the Sea runs through your veins. ’Twas only a matter of time. And like I said, I shall not be a master of any singular trade, so perhaps it would only make sense for me to spend some time learning trade routes and such, immerse myself in the ways of the Sea in ways I have not yet. Who is this valuable passenger?”

“You’ve spent time with Lydia? Then you know that she is the daughter of a woman with vast amounts of money, some power on the mainland, and I suppose now she has some time to pass without any duties to maintain.”

“She has retired?”

“Indeed.”

“And she is making her way to Beacon Harbor for some time?”

“Yes. Along with some valuable family heirlooms.”

“So you are her chaperone because of your pirating skills, they believe you can keep them safe upon the Sea?”

“Indeed,” Derek nudges at Stiles’s nose, a small insecurity bubbling in his chest when it is put that way. He has not the best track record when it comes to safety of his passengers, but Lydia and Ms Martin have decided to trust him regardless. 

“I am coming with you,” he repeats his sentiment from earlier, this time simply to remind Derek he will have his mate, his strength, and his mind along with him for moments of his own weakness. Not only will he have his trusted crew, but he will also have Stiles to strengthen his own weaknesses. And provide much confidence when he lacks it. 

But should the worst happen, then there is the chance that he could lose Stiles. Sensing his worries, the omega pushes a knuckle under his chin, guiding his focus to meet his, “we shall be together, Derek, come what may,” pressing a delicate kiss to the tip of his nose, leaning back with a sly grin, “and don’t you for one moment think that I am doing this to please you. Or submit to you. I am doing this out of curiosity. And an itch for some traveling. I have never seen the American Main, though I have heard much. This island is wonderful, I believe I shall live here for the rest of my days, but a little travel never hurt,” he nudges into Derek’s nose just shy of painfully with his enthusiasm, “when do we weigh anchor, Captain?” his lips close over Derek’s before he can answer the query, “shall I pack a pair of my finest long clothes to impress the Americans?” another kiss upon his lips, “or would it appear less threatening were we all dressed as the ragtag bunch that we are? Less likely to attract unwanted attention?” he will not allow Derek to answer a single query this eve. Pressing his lips again and again into Derek’s, grinding his hips into Derek’s lap, allowing his hands to rove, until all of his previous worries have very much disappeared. 

———————

By three days into the journey it is quite clear to Derek that he has never experienced anything like this. There is no pressing worry this time, there is no chase to give, there is no vengeance to seek, there is just a shipload of his crew, a few passengers seeking a new life in the Americas, some goods for trade, and Stiles. Stiles who is healing, full of vigor, eager to smile, to jest, and to kiss. His cheeks are pink with life, his bones are layered over with cushioning now that while still lean and muscled, suits him so. 

Derek cannot help himself but to spend most days with a smile on his face, one he knows does not suit his old persona, but one that his crew seems to respond to favorably. Even Peter seems to have loosened his shoulders a bit and partaken in more merriment. 

The evenings are just theirs. Just him and Stiles. Alone in the chambers that smells so deeply embedded of them as one. Most typically they read or play a game of chess. The lad’s laughter bouncing around off the walls and making this chamber feel ever more like home. 

Holding the omega close to his chest every night, taking in deep lungfuls of his contentment is something Derek did not believe possible months ago. He bares his throat to Derek often during their sexual encounters, Derek simply laves kisses over those soft vulnerable places. Being trusted so eagerly with something so precious makes his breath catch every time, his heart still in his chest and his alpha preen with pride. But he decided months ago he would never bite this lad. No matter how many times he serves himself up on the finest of platters, the lad will never be marked to seal a bond. ’Tis not a thing Derek spends time worrying over, he knows there are other ways to seal a bond when Stiles is ready. 

They are one day’s time away from Boston Harbor when Stiles wonders, leaning back into their pillows, sated smile on his face, sweet scent of satisfaction in the air, limbs still tangled with Dereks where he lies between the lad’s legs; “perhaps it would not serve me to be unbonded and visiting so vast a city.”

Derek traces a Triskelion on the lad’s chest though a sheen of sweat, before pressing a kiss to his collarbone, “Stiles if you are…”

“Asking you to bite me. Again! Captain, and again! And there is only so much a man can take when it comes to your sweet rejections but my stubborn omega cannot take no for an answer.”

“If you want the bite to…”

“Bond then I need to love you. I need to feel that mating tug deep inside me, I need to feel safe with you. I need to feel satisfied and loved. I need to want to be with you for the rest of my days. Yes. I know these things Derek. And I believe I have made myself so very clear in all of these matters that I intend to stay with you as your mate, your lover, your friend, your Beloved for…”

Derek presses into his lips to stop them from moving. He knows it is a dirty trick, but he must stop the words before the lad drowns himself in worries and doubts. He kisses until the stubborn omega relents, opens his mouth and kisses him back deeply with all the spoken and unspoken promises of mate, of life, of love. The promises that Derek has known for awhile now, the ones he has felt towards Stiles in ways he never expected. 

He doesn’t pull back until Stiles’s scent goes soft, slightly syrupy and mildly aroused once again. Leaning out of his lips, remaining close, stroking a hand through his hair, resting the bulk of his weight on his elbows while he feels comfortable letting Stiles’s strong frame take more of it than he ever has before. He explains gently, “the bite will not work on your flesh Stiles,” he scents the spike in his anxiety immediately so he rumbles deep in his chest, making certain the omega does not interrupt him, allowing comfort to pour out of him as he continues, “a bite over a scar will not bond. And any of the places on your throat that are unscarred are too dangerous a place to bite deep enough. But,” he watches as Stiles’s eyes pinch shut, tears immediately gathering at the crease of his lids. Derek leans in to kiss those tears away, as tenderly as possible, “there are other ways. Other ways that I am certainly more than willing to try with you.”

Those eyes open frantically, his fingers have begun to tap nervous patterns on Derek’s chest as his mind starts to sort through all the knowledge he has acquired, whether truths or rumors, whether malicious lies or unknown origins that are simply spread from village to village in his homeland, whether written in scrolls, books, or etched into wooden walls in the whorehouse. Derek can practically feel it vibrating through him, his eyes darting back and forth from Derek’s left to his right eye, then down to his lips, taking in every scent that Derek is offering. Deciphering for himself how true Derek’s own statement of willingness is before he squeaks out, “do you mean to tell me that I should bite you?”

“I do,” he nods lightly with the statement, letting a smile toy at his lips as he watches Stiles’s eyes lighting up further. A burst of hope filling the room.

“But I,” he begins, chews on his lower lip for a moment, then begins again with a gush of air, “there is no way an omega bite can seal a bond with an alpha. Perhaps an omega with another omega or a beta, but there is no way it would work Derek, you cannot tell me that…”

Derek clears his throat, interrupting him before he can fall down a rabbit hole, “do you trust me, Stiles?”

“Yes,” he answers immediately.

“Then trust me when I say it does not matter between us who does the biting, it only matters that the intent is there for both of us.”

He falls silent for what feels like an eternity as he chews his lip, staring into Derek’s eyes like he can find all the answers there. Finally he smiles, “I scent no deceit in your words, Derek Hale. All I detect is honestly, and a strong undercurrent of desire,” his lips press together for a moment as he thinks through the logistics of it all, wondering, “we have not had intercourse, will this affect the outcome?”

Derek shrugs, “I don’t believe it would. Perhaps there are bonded couples out there who never have intercourse, but that does not change the love, respect, and devotion to one another.”

“If I find myself never to be capable of intercourse, would this…”

“T’would never change my sole devotion to you,” Derek finishes for him, nudging his nose with his own, sealing his lips tenderly over the omega’s. In the months together, he has found that his desires have been completely met by the things they do when they are alone. Whether it is sexual in nature or simply companionable, Stiles gives him everything and more than he deemed himself worthy of. Stiles is slowly but surely proving to Derek that he is allowed to be happy, he is allowed to be loved, and he is allowed to savor these moments all the while knowing there will be more. 

His queries have not been satisfied yet, even as the scent of arousal in the air has spiked and Derek can feel his hardening cock between them, “what about ceremonies and public acknowledgments of bonding?”

Derek rumbles, watching the eyes dancing with reflections of soft candlelight, brimming with affection, “I shall plan the largest ceremony Beacon Harbor has ever seen when we return should you so desire,” linking their fingers together to bring Stiles’s wrist to his lips, to draw his aroma deeper into his soul, “I shall stand in town’s square for a week's time delivering the news to every citizen with hearing ears should you so desire. I shall deliver you a fine golden band to wear upon your finger and shoot a canon with so much powder to envelop all of the Harbor with pyrotechnics the likes of which have never been seen would you so desire.”

The lad is smiling now, wide and mischievous as he considers all the ways in which he would request Derek make his affections known publicly. Derek can practically see all of the options he is creating in his mind, before his face falls ever so softly, contentedly, and lovingly into an open expression that he knows Stiles only wears for Derek when he sighs, his fingers tangling deeply into Derek’s braid, “perhaps you wearing my bonding bite is more than enough,” pressing into the back of Derek’s head until he is forehead to forehead. His chest rises beneath Derek with a deep inhale, his lips part most likely to wonder when and how he should deliver this bite. But Derek adjusts his body first, quickly taking the omega in his arms to roll them, letting himself revel in the joyous laugh that exits his plush lips as he settles with Stiles sprawled out across his body. He feels himself smile, feels a knot in his chest that has been there for so long, loosen and disappear as he bares his throat to the most beautiful, intelligent, brave, and complete person he has ever had the pleasure of knowing. 

Stiles brushes his fingers gently across the exposed flesh, his eyes never leaving Derek’s. Something so soft and vulnerable there even though it is Derek who is baring his throat. A very slight spike of nerves is doused by Derek’s responding rumble as Stiles’s lips land on his forehead first. Leaving a trail of kisses down the bridge of his nose, holding Derek’s face in his hands as he angles for a deep, passionate kiss that lingers until they are both breathless and daft with pleasure, lust, and drunk with love. Derek’s eyes are full of bursting lights, swirling stars and his entire body is yearning for more, more, more when Stiles finally pulls back, nosing his way along Derek’s jaw, through his beard. A shallow rumble from the lad’s chest, his lips lying closed against the column of Derek’s throat that he has exposed once again. Derek rumbles in return, a deep resounding sound as he nods. He hears Stiles’s breath catch just before he leans in, an animalistic noise echoing between them, being torn from both their throats as his teeth sink in and Derek is flooded with passion, with bright blinding trust, with a feeling so full and yet yearning for more, for always, for every moment for the rest of their lives. 

He hears himself whimper, gets lost in the swirling satisfaction in his lids, in his every limb, in his core, making the world around them disappear. Making his body feel as though it is floating in the sky high above, dancing from star to star, and watching their entwined beings from a higher place of living. He feels Stiles flatten his tongue over the mark, lapping the beads of blood as his hands fall against Derek’s shoulder-blades, holding him, supporting him. He’s never felt so bare in his life, but he’s never felt so safe either. It is as though nothing in this world can touch them here. 

There is so much warmth and feeling of home, belonging and devotion in his chest that he is certain it is to burst and spill his still beating heart out at Stiles’s feet. ’Tis the repetition of the words, “I love you,” in a breathless, slightly panicked manner that makes Derek open his eyes, seek out those bumbo and honey drizzled browns that are sandblasted with all the things Derek is feeling. Stiles sighs heavily, takes in a deep breath as his body deflates against Derek’s chest, his face immediately finding refuge in Derek’s neck, “my gods Derek, it isn’t as though you told me how deeply to bite you.”

Derek grunts out a laugh, of all the life-altering things a typical person would perhaps say in such a soul-deep connected moment, Stiles chooses that. 

“What?” eyes alight with joy when he rises from his hiding place, “I thought perhaps I had gone too deep, then what would I tell your crew? Your alpha sister? Your terrifying mother? Not that she is terrifying per say, but her power and ability to maintain calm and level headed in all situations is quite eery and I should be quite dead if I accidentally killed her son whilst trying to claim him,” his eyes are searching for all the things inside of Derek’s that he is feeling, his nostrils flare from time to time to sort through their combined scents before he leans against Derek’s face, pulling his arms rather tight ‘round his shoulders, “I love you so. And I have never felt a thing like this before.”

“Nor have I,” Derek mutters against his lips that are leaning but not kissing, just breathing against his, “I love you too, Stiles. And I shall until my very last day.”

“Aye aye, Captain” he agrees with a smile ticking the corners of his lips before they close the minuscule distance between them, sweetly and tenderly boarding Derek’s ship and overtaking every nook and cranny of his life, his soul, and his future.


	24. Trust, Love, And Devotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last bit of this one and the first bit of the next one are probably the most porn I've ever written, but it's emotional and with any luck the intimate kind of porn these two need :)
> 
> Also for the sake of this fic and not wanting to write any more trauma, I'm pretending that America is an open-minded and accepting place in the world.

Trust, Love, And Devotion

The reactions of the crew to their captain having bonded himself in a private ceremony-less affair, are all quite different but the overwhelming feeling is pure joy. Erica hugs Stiles so tightly that he is certain she has cracked his ribs. Lydia, though not a part of the crew, but a part of this voyage and Derek’s life in general, only responds with a very smug smile upon her lips and a gentle hug. Boyd pats his shoulder so boisterously that he nearly knocks him off the bow. Isaac wipes a tear off his cheek and very timidly gives Stiles a slight, awkward hug, nuzzles his neck before he pulls back and watches the floorboards as he walks away. Which, of course, prompts Stiles to query Derek of the beta’s past. Later when they are alone.

“The lad’s father was an alpha who often partook in too much drink. His mother was an omega who constantly smelled of bruises,” Derek answers as he puts his weapons belt on the desk, “my mother tried a few times to bring his mother, brother, and Isaac to a place where they could be protected, sheltered. There are just so many layers to these types of abuses, an omega cannot simply be forced to leave. ’Twas too late. Isaac’s older brother arrived home one afternoon to find his mother dead at his father’s hands. He then took his father’s life and his own. Isaac has been through a lot. It has taken quite some time to get the lad out of his shell, with good reason, but it is clear he feels quite safe now with this crew. And that is all I can ask for,” he clears his throat. His emotions being ever so much more clear to Stiles through not only a heightened scent, but also a heightened connection through the bonding bite.

Stiles takes the steps forward, rests his forehead against Derek’s for a long breath. His hands rising to meet the captain’s shoulders, “you’ve a very sound crew. One that I am very proud to be a part of,” he admits. Feeling Derek’s smile rise is much like watching ice melting in the Spring. And gods he feels it ever more deeply now with the bond in place, “I am very excited to experience Boston.”

“Indeed,” Derek hums, the vibrations making Stiles shiver, “an experience that shall begin in about one hour’s time. The wind is with us.”

Stiles runs his fingers over the scab on Derek’s neck, gently making Derek shudder against his body, “please allow me to dress this wound, Captain, before you get a nasty infection.”

“A true bonding bite, as this one is, never becomes infected,” leaning forward to press a quick kiss to his lips, “’tis no need to dress the wound. I wear it proudly.”

“Even in a place such as Boston? Where surely there are plenty of world views, but ’tis rather strange in nearly every corner of the world for an alpha to accept the bite of an omega.”

“Does not matter to me. ’Tis nothing illegal we have done, so no one else’s thoughts matter on the subject.”

“Derek, I’m not convinced you understand the type of cruel words that are surely likely to be thrown your way.”

“Stiles,” he sighs, leans away from his face so he can watch his eyes, “societal issues do not change unless we make them change. Should I be the first alpha walking around freely in Boston with a bonding bite still healing on my neck gifted to me by my omega mate? Perhaps. Do I expect people to not understand it? Indeed. Have I been presented with certain hatred aimed towards me before? Yes. ’Tis not the same issue, no, but t’would not be the first time I’ve been deemed unworthy or spat upon. After my crew was murdered and I was incapable of protecting them, there was much said about me, much said to me, words that I dare not repeat and perhaps I deserved every one of them. But I cannot live my life based off of what others think of me. Perhaps I am daft for wholeheartedly believing that the only people in my life I need to be worthy of are my family, my crew, and my mate. And believe me, I have trouble finding reasons that you have deemed me worthy of your love. I will always have trouble understanding how my family could forgive me for getting my brothers and sister killed. And my crew? How they have entrusted me with my past? I have no fathomable idea how they can find it within themselves to…”

A whine in Stiles’s throat cuts him off, “I cannot believe you have not found any of these reasons within yourself! Gods, Derek you are so kind and tender. You have proven to me so many times now that you are capable of listening to those around you. You need not martyr yourself because of what Deucalion,” there is a low growl in the captain’s chest at the spoken name, “did to you, to your crew, to your family and your mate. Deucalion’s actions are only his own,” he watches Derek’s eyes long enough to see the words beginning to sink in, before he kisses his lips. He knows that it has been a long journey and it will continue to be a lifelong journey towards healing for both of them. But now, without a single doubt, they are in this together. He pats Derek’s chest after a lingering moment against his lips, “now, shall we bathe and make ready for dry land?”

———————

Boston is much. ’Tis overwhelming actually. The crowd is bustling, the harbor is vast, the city stinks of strange odors Stiles has never smelled before. But the one thing that most certainly stands out, is the way in which Derek’s neck is eyed, is deemed proper or at least acceptable, and is not pointed out. There are many eyes that rove the wound and many nostrils that flare at the sight, a few sour expressions here and there during their time in the harbor, their time making way through the busy streets, and the time spent waiting for a formal invitation to the Martin Manor. But not a soul speaks a foul word, no one growls or snorts. The vast majority of those that eye the wound, scent the man as alpha, and take note of Stiles beside him; actually nod their approval. ’Tis strange. To say the least! A place like Boston in the New World, the American Main to be so accepting. A world where omegas are still sold as slaves, for this city to be welcoming to the idea of an omega originating the bite. Over an alpha!

Stiles finds himself smiling so much that his face it likely to be sore by supper time.

Then there is Ms Martin herself. Who congratulates them, insists upon throwing them a fine party the following eve, dresses them both in fine clothing the likes of which Stiles has never felt upon his flesh before. The likes of which make Derek look like some sort of fairy tale prince and Stiles can’t help but laugh upon seeing his captain’s grumpy expression with the dress clothes. He is so beautiful, and so unaware of it. It makes Stiles’s heart soar every time his eyebrows dip into annoyance over something so silly as a blouse collar that makes him mildly uncomfortable and stiff. 

’Tis not something Stiles ever wants to get used to, this type of living. But it is quite the experience. And to see Derek’s entire crew dressed in finery. Acting like proper people. It does not suit them!

The manor is something that Stiles had imagined the Hale manor in Beacon Harbor to be before he laid eyes upon it. ’Tis vast, filled with riches, filled with servants. He despises it as much as he enjoys it. He feels very small in a place this large, very out of place. At least the servants here seem to be paid and not enslaved. They are a fine mix of people. Even an alpha servant has been seen.

There is a feast unlike anything Stiles has ever had. There is dancing and much merriment, wine, mead, and rum to make the pirates feel at home is served. ’Tis a once in a lifetime experience and Stiles is quite glad it shall remain a once in a lifetime event. It takes entirely too long to get Derek to loosen up and enjoy himself. Stiles is quite certain it took a verbal lashing from Lydia when she pulled him aside, to force him to erase the put-upon expression on his face.

He returns to Stiles with an apology whispered in his ear, “’tis not you, ’tis not the bond. This party is a lot,” his finger slips into the collar at his throat, relieving some pressure momentarily and Stiles reaches out, tugs the cravat loose, pops a button and smiles knowingly. Derek leans his forehead against Stiles’s for a moment, breathing in the scent of his content. Content, even in this crowd, letting it wash over his mate.

“I, too, shall be relieved when this shindig is over. But for now, what say you we dance?” he sweeps his arm out to gesture to the floor, nearly knocks an expensive looking glass across the table.

Derek catches the glass before it can shatter, rights it, rises to his feet and offers his hand. Stiles feels himself grinning so wide ’tis likely to split his cheeks as he takes the hand being offered and allows Derek to lead him to the dance floor. 

His joy can no longer be stifled when he gets to experience the captain’s ability to throw caution to the wind and allow himself to be vulnerably, disgustingly, adorably happy. His eyes are dancing more than his body is, and his body is certainly dancing! It makes Stiles warm, flushed with excitement, not only in a sexual way but in the headlong into a life-altering relationship way. With this man. This man who is gruff on the exterior, who is grumpy in social situations, but who is so soft and so caring on the inside. A man who is always willing to put those around him at ease, see to the needs of his crew, his family, and his mate before his own. Which, in ways, Stiles will have to work with him on seeing to his own needs as well, he cannot run himself into the ground to take care of those around him. A man, in Stiles’s opinion, who has proven himself to be worthy of all the love the world has to offer. And then some. 

———————

The party carries on long into the wee hours of the morn. The vast majority of the crew acting the drunken pirates they are, but causing no harm nor destruction. Simply enjoying themselves upon dry land. Even Peter has been seen with a smile on his face throughout the eve.

The chambers that Lydia whisks Stiles and Derek away to at some point when the noise is starting to din and the crowd is starting to dwindle, is the most glorious chambers that Stiles has ever seen. He has teased Derek in the past about having beds barren of riches for a man of his status, but he’s never longed for them either. And now, his mouth falling open with every feature he takes in; the silks of finest quality, the feather pillows, the adornments on the four post bed with a deep golden satin canopy atop. They are impossibly extravagant and obnoxious! He cannot stifle the snort that escapes him when Lydia curtsies with a wink and pulls the heavy wooden doors shut behind her. 

Throwing himself onto the bed, he laughs harder. Derek tossing aside his garments, finally looking more himself and ever so delectable as he strips with a smirk on his face. Stiles is squirming out of his clothing as he rolls atop the blankets, “I cannot believe we have been entrusted with such finery,” he laughs again, “who in their right mind would…”

“Of all the finery in this world and the next, you are the finest,” Derek interrupts him.

“And you, sweet Captain, are drunk.”

“Aye. But honest nonetheless,” he has such a determined expression upon his face that Stiles cannot deny him his truths. So he nods, and motions for the alpha to settle himself between Stiles’s legs so he can kiss him, stroke his flesh, and feel the weight of his comfort over him. There is no unsettling feeling in his skin anymore when the heat of this alpha is surrounding him. There is no fluttering of distrust, or even hints of warning that are simply borne of past experience. Nay, there is nothing between them but trust, love, and devotion.

———————

By the time they leave Boston, the scabs on the captain’s neck are healed, just the very deepest of the marks that have a small layer atop them. The rest scarring up in the manner a bonding bite that properly seals is expected to. Stiles can feel it growing ever more deeply each day that passes. At this stage it is not only his bond to Derek that makes him more sensitive to Derek’s emotions and needs, but also now to those closest to him. He finds it easier to scent the emotions of his crew. And he feels evermore one of them, someone who belongs. 

Midway to their journey home, and gods is Stiles insane for thinking of Beacon Harbor as home now? Home. He lets the idea of it, the feeling of it sink in and settle the nerves that are beginning to rise even with the soothing hands of his alpha’s slowly sliding up and down his naked sides where he is perched in Derek’s lap. He is ready, this time he is certain of it, and this time the butterflies that are overtaking him are simply excitement, ’tis no fear, no trepidation. Simply the want and the deep need to feel Derek, his bonded mate, connected to him in ways they have not achieved yet.

He takes a long moment to feel the way Derek’s tongue is journeying over his lower lip, meeting his just beyond his teeth, sliding overtop and then beneath before drawing back. He takes a moment to feel his hands, the tender motions of the rough skin over the soft places upon Stiles’s flesh that leave tingles and goosebumps in their wake. He takes a moment to feel where his rear is flush against Derek’s thighs, his powerful thighs that Stiles has rubbed himself off on plenty of times now, enough to know every dip and every pull of the man’s muscles beneath him. He lets his mind wander to the front of their bodies. Where Derek’s hard cock is pressed against his own through the layers of under-britches, every time Stiles drags his pelvis just so, every time he strokes his fingers just so, and every time he bites the captain’s lower lip just so; the way his breath becomes ragged with each motion, the rumbles that seem pulled from him, the stunted gasps and grunted moans.

Stiles allows himself to feel these things, to notice them even deeper than before. He allows himself to bathe in them. To recognize the things that have become predictable in their times together, those things that are predictable but never tiring. Those things that are a comfort, a joy, and a thrill all in one. He revels in it while his hands travel the dips and divots in the captain’s back. Trailing fingers into scars, over knobs of his spine, smoothing palms over muscles so tight and solid. He inhales Derek’s exhale and admits, “I am ready,” drawing back only far enough to see those Sea colored eyes, to see them open and longing, to see them soft and eager, to see them peering directly into Stiles’s heart and soul, “for intercourse,” his voice does not tremble, his heart does not stutter, “I am ready to feel you inside me,” watching as his own hand rises, smoothing across Derek’s jaw, his beard, fingertips brushing his cheekbones, “I am eager to feel you inside me,” leaning until their foreheads are touching.

Derek does not stifle the rumble that reverberates through him, practically vibrating the entire bed with the deep resounding agreement to Stiles’s admission. The rumble sets his omega into a quiet frenzy of _need, want, take, have_. A shudder rips up his spine and exits his mouth in a breathy sigh as Derek nods and the heady scent of arousal triples in the chambers. Stiles feels himself smile, most of his life the reaction inside him would have embarrassed him, shamed him, and made him want to recoil or cower from his own urges. But now, it only makes him want to chase that urge, rolling his hips against Derek’s body, hearing the sigh it pulls from the man’s chest. 

His voice is low, sweet, certain but softer than an alpha would typically be when such a proposition is made, “how?” nuzzling into Stiles’s nose as his hands still his hips, “how would you like to position us?”

“I suppose I should like to look upon your face,” kissing the tip of his nose quickly before leaning out further to inspect his eyes, “perhaps I should need control.”

Derek rumbles his agreement, watching Stiles’s eyes the entire time, his nostrils flaring slightly to catch scent. Though at this point, the only scent Stiles can discern is lust. Which is most likely precisely what Derek is assuring himself of.

Stiles feels himself smile, watches his hands smooth over the captain’s beard, feeling the hair beneath his fingers, against his palm, “I believe I shall stay exactly where I am.”

Derek nods, his eyes twinkling as though someone has tossed a layer of diamonds over top of the Sea on a windless day, “and you shall tell me if…”

“Anything is amiss. Aye,” pressing lips to lips to seal the promise made. Speaking is wonderful, ‘tis necessary, but it is rather boring when he could instead be grinding his pelvis against Derek’s. He winks when he lets himself bear down against his thigh. Derek’s lips part to emit a soft moan that seems to blanket Stiles with a new surge of lust and need. He dives into the alpha’s lips, hungrily seeking his tongue as his hips grind for long enough that they are both fully aroused before he leans away to remove his under-britches. Derek lifts his pelvis to remove his own and Stiles surprises himself by instead of retaking his perch in the captain’s lap, he leans down to take his cock in his mouth. 

Derek’s hand rises and immediately falls upon Stiles’s shoulder, his gasp is sharp and nearly sounds pained, “’tis no need for that,” he offers.

Stiles has never willingly had a cock in his mouth, but he finds himself rather eager to feel this. He wants to taste his mate, he wants to run his tongue the length of him, close his lips around his head and slide as far down his shaft as he can stand to. He wants to feel the weight of his cock, he wants to trace the wrinkles in his balls, and he wants to swirl the tip until he can taste precum. So he does. All the while feeling the way Derek’s hand clenches upon his shoulder, not too tight, but clearly anchoring himself there, holding back his orgasm. His rumbles and moans urging Stiles on, all the while knowing he can stop whenever he likes. That the man expects nothing of him. Knowing so only makes Stiles that much more eager to please him. 

He is incapable of making this look as easy as Derek does, but he does find a certain pleasure in doing it that the never suspected he would. Tingles in the pit of his stomach, rushing through his core and straight to his pleasure zones spread throughout his body like a spider web of lust. His own cock twitches when Derek moans and the salty liquid from the tip of his cock spreads through Stiles’s mouth, coating his tongue with the taste of mate. Gods, he should feel the slut he’s been accused of for the way his body reacts, sending a surge of slick through his channel and a sting of pleasure emitting from his omega gland making it impossible to ignore any longer. With one hand wrapped ‘round the captain’s shaft as he sucks at the tip, he reaches for Derek’s hand to guide it to his ass. 

Feeling Derek repositioning himself, making certain to move his pelvis ever so slowly and easily as to not bump his cock too far or too hard into Stiles’s mouth. His hand slides over his asscheek, fingers tracing along his crack then circling his hole. Stiles gasps around his mouthful as Derek’s skilled fingers trace his rim, trailing his slick across the pads of his fingers and releasing the scent of it in the air. Stiles’s eyes roll shut, spots colliding in his lids. He’s grown used to the feel of Derek’s fingers inside him. His careful explorations that are always so sweet and nurturing. Grown used to them certainly, but never tired of them, never unsurprised by the way his body reacts and the need for more, the need for intimacy, the need for closeness and touch, kiss, feel, that melts over him like honey drizzled over a breakfast biscuit. 

He’s reduced to just mouthing at the tip of Derek’s cock, his fingers clasped ‘round the shaft as he moans and writhes with the motion of the captain’s fingers. The first one pressing past his rim makes him emit a noise that should be rather embarrassing if he’d not done it a hundred times by now. A noise that should be embarrassing if it did not rise a smile on Derek’s lips every time he does it. Unable to lave proper attention over the alpha’s cock, and quite certain he no longer needs it anyway, Stiles releases with his mouth, leans his forehead against his belly and just breathes in the scents of Derek’s groin, the scent of his precum mingled with Stiles’s spit. And he watches with lust fogged eyes as his hand languorously strokes up and down, when his spit dries he trails a hand back to slide alongside Derek’s on his ass. Moaning as the feel of two fingers inside him stretches his rim, he takes a few passes with Derek’s rhythm of ins and outs, the pads of their fingers making him lurch as they press softly on his prostate, pass further and slip over his omega gland. 

Stiles says something that is supposed to be, “so good, don’t stop,” but he’s quite certain it does not come out nearly that clearly. Enough for Derek to understand what he means though as he slips his own finger back out, smears his gathered slick on his palm and returns to his lazy grip on Derek’s cock. A second finger slides into the empty space that Stiles just left behind and he feels his body push back into the captain’s palm, “one more,” he orders. Sweat is beading on his flesh, the sight of the captain’s beautiful cock this close to his face, the way the skin pulls under his grasp, the scent of his precum thick in his nostrils, the shine of it on his skin and the pressure of a third finger tracing his rim has Stiles wanting to throw himself into Derek’s lap and press his cock inside his body immediately. 

Derek’s steadying hand on his side, his muttered words, and his unabashed rumbles remind him to take it slow, to take time, to savor, to feel every single motion inside and out. To revel in it, allow his emotions tangle and untangle at will. He can very easily close his eyes now and not be bombarded with viscous memories of the Demon Wolf. He can close his eyes and scent everything he longed for in a mate, right here with him in this bed upon the Triskelion. The strength, the certainty, the love that Derek emits in his scent when they are together, the way his hands and his soft touches speak not only to Stiles, but also to the omega inside him, the wonder of his patience when it’s been so well embedded in society for an omega to expect the exact opposite with an alpha. He is perfect. Stiles is certain he mutters as much, with is lips pressed tight against the dip alongside his pelvic bone, along the taut line of his muscles as Derek presses the tip of a third finger past his rim. It feels a slight intrusion, but nothing painful, nothing that feels too much to give. He breathes with it and focuses on the fingers deep inside him stroking his omega and releasing such sweet syrupy pleasure. 

Derek’s free hand slides over his cheek, through his hair, lands on the nape of his neck and his request is such a soft, whispered, breakable thing, “look at me,” that Stiles could not deny it even if he wanted to.

Lifting his head, letting his eyes wander over every scar on the man’s chest, seeing the memorization he has of his chest hair, his nipples, the lines of his collarbone, the indents of the mating bite along his throat, the bob of his Adam’s Apple as he swallows, the hair of his beard that only grows thicker the further his eyes travel. His lips that are moist and welcoming, the surface of which Stiles has imprinted on his tongue and in his mind. His straight nose, nostrils flared out to gather the most scent possible, using it to decipher any of Stiles’s moods as his fingers continue to send pleasure-filled bursts through his entire body. 

The captain’s eyes. His eyes that Stiles has seen so many emotions floating atop the surface of. His eyes now that are lust blown and soft, filled to the brim with love and awe. Stiles takes a deep breath when the depth of the man’s heart is flayed open and everything is made so clear in just his gaze. Stiles lifts his head, adjusting his body slowly to move closer, to retake his position in the captain’s lap. Moving slowly enough that he does not lose the fingers that are caressing his insides, causing explosions of want and need in his body. He is breathless by the time he has straddled Derek’s lap once again. His hand dropping to caress his cock, his lips immediately leaning against Derek’s, whispering gently, “I am ready,” against his lips.

A nod against his face, his fingers slowly pulling back, Stiles cringes when they are removed from inside him, a whine tearing itself from his throat even though he knows they will soon be replaced with something better. He takes a deep breath, waits until Derek’s hands are on his hips, rubbing soothing circles into his flesh. Leaning his face out, just far enough away from Derek’s that he can gaze upon him as he lifts himself, takes a hold on the alpha’s cock and lines them up. He traces his rim with the head of it for a moment, letting his body react while he watches those sea glass eyes. Derek rumbles gently, sending comfort through him, a quiet reminder that he needs not do this if he is not ready, if he is any way doubting, or having second thoughts.

Stiles nods. He can feel his body reacting with more slick, his rear feeling lax and open. ’Tis still a surprise when he lowers himself just enough to press the head of his cock through his rim. It burns, but not in a horrible painful sort of way. Rather a pleasure ache that promises a feeling of full that he’s never experienced before. He stops himself there, giving himself a moment to adjust, to accommodate the girth. His exhale shudders ever so slightly, anticipation taking root in his chest and sending butterflies through his belly. Watching Derek’s eyes up close as his pupils dance a jig of lust and pleasure. Stiles feels himself smile at the sight of the captain’s face. A look so deep, and so trusting, so honest and loving. Awe having parted his lips just slightly. His hands have moved back from Stiles’s hips to support his buttocks, to take some pressure off Stiles’s thighs. 

He hears himself swallow, nods once again, letting Derek know that he is ready to lower himself further. His hands remain sturdy, rubbing into his flesh in an unearthly soothing manner, not tugging him further open, not lying there like a threat; only offering support and a chance to slow down should Stiles want to push too hard, too quickly. 

Feeling his mate’s cock sliding slowly, inch by tortuously pleasurable inch, watching the way it lights his eyes, and fogs his irises at the same time, watching the way his lips part then purse, watching the way his chest flutters in the same butterfly wing rhythm of Stiles’s. He nearly forgets to feel the stretch and discomfort of it, he is so absorbed in every little emotion that shows so beautifully on the captain’s face as he gazes at Stiles as though he is the most incredible thing he has ever laid eyes upon. He feels himself smiling when he has sunk to the base of Derek’s cock. Feeling so full, allowing his body to relax and make room for his mate, stilling himself completely, hands rising to slide up Derek’s stomach, chest, and throat. He takes in the sight of his bite scar. Feels the fluttering that has grown to encompass his entire body now. His fingers tangle in the hair of the man’s beard for a moment, his index finger slipping over his lips causing his eyes to roll shut and a rumble so fierce to echo in the chambers that Stiles is very certain he is doing all he can possibly do to hold back. He nearly wants to tell him not to, he nearly wants to tell him to let him have it, to knot him and breed him. But this is not something they have spoken of, and he knows Derek far well enough to know that he will not take advantage, he will not take a thing from his omega that they have not discussed ahead of time. The man’s control is astounding. Allowing Stiles to just sit here, with his cock buried deep inside him, unmoving, and stare at him. 

“You are an admirable fellow, Captain Derek Hale,” Stiles grins, letting every part of the man overtake every part of his mind and body as he leans in to capture his lips in a deep, slow, and intimate kiss. A kiss that lasts through the first gasp, and moan as he rocks his pelvis slightly. His fingers tightening in Derek’s beard, tilting his head to the exact angle he’s searching for. Wanting to turn liquid and pour down his throat so he can live in that man’s large, strong chest and float upon those rumbles for the rest of his life. 

The second rocking of his pelvis forces the moan so deep that it breaks the kiss, only to reconnect when Stiles whines at the loss of the connection. That burn from the start is beginning to subside, swiftly turning into simple pleasure with every rock, every sway, every roll of his hips. Derek’s stunted breath and the raggedness of his rumbles only serve to urge Stiles on. Testing different depths, and angles, swaying not only forward and back, but also side to side. His own cock leaking now, twitching every time Derek’s cock drags across his prostate and his omega gland. The potent scent of both of their arousal so thick, ’tis bound to be embedded in this chambers for weeks. He feels himself smiling into the kiss at the thought.

Derek’s hands seem to have grown roots upon his rear, but Stiles does not mind. He is certain if the captain placed a finger over his nipple, or grasped his cock right now that he’d come. And he has no desire to do that just yet. He’d like to have more time, time to find the exact rhythm and depth he is yearning for. He’d like to have enough time to see every star that shoots across his closed lids, to count them and allow every burst of pleasure to turn into liquid heat in his core, spread through his limbs like a wave that shall rock the Triskelion herself long into the moonlit night.


	25. Declarations Of Love

Declarations Of Love

Derek can feel sweat beading and slowly rolling down his back, the trembling of Stiles’s legs, the gathering of his slick seeping out from their connection point and pooling in his groin. He breathes through his mouth, overriding the natural urge to scent them together, knowing it will only make him orgasm. He is having a hard enough time as is holding himself back. And Stiles seems in no mood for this to end anytime soon. 

His velvety brown eyes are lit with pleasure and joy. He’s found his rhythm, one that has his back bowed, whines that are uncontrollable passing his lips, his hands clasped in Derek’s beard and in his braid. His head tilted back, arching his neck, baring his throat. Derek finds himself smiling at the gesture, one he makes so trustingly now. Leaning into him, nuzzling with his nose first and then grazing lips over his thin and vulnerable skin as he swallows, as a moan and a whine vibrate his vocal cords against Derek’s lips. 

Derek’s heart is beating in every inch of his body, trying to crack through his ribs and live in the chest of the omega, beneath his pale flesh marked by moles that Derek has memorized the pattern of, a thatch of dark hair, and finally enough meat on his bones to no longer look so breakable. He is otherworldly gorgeous. 

Derek buries his face in his throat when Stiles’s whine becomes a near whimper, “whenever you are ready,” whispering softly, “I shall be ready as well,” it sounds as though he has just swam from the island to the American Main for the way his breathing is so rapid and his voice is so raw. 

Stiles huffs out a response that Derek interprets as, “not yet.”

Sliding his hands from the lad’s rear to his back, splaying his fingers wide to encompass the most of his flesh possible with one pass. 

There is a thread of guilt, certainly, when he remembers the last time he had this kind of soul deep connection, the last time he had intercourse with a bonded mate. He misses her, sure, he thinks of her often, ’tis only natural. But time has passed, and time has not brought her back to him. Instead it has given him this, this moment to savor, this person to love. To love, not in her place, but to love. Differently, as all forms of love are, neither stronger nor weaker. Not a second chance, not a replacement. Something new, something treasured and unique.

Stiles stills his movements, emits a soft sound in recognition of Derek’s tangled thoughts and emotions. Tightening his grip in his beard to draw his face up, aiming his gaze. Derek nods at him, taking in the sight of his face. Flushed with pleasure, glossed with sweat, his cheeks so pink and warm. Derek’s hand leaves his slim back to trace over his cheekbone, his jaw, sliding pads of his fingers into the handle to draw him nearer. Against his forehead, taking a deep breath through his nose. The scent of them together, the scent of home and mate, happiness, intimacy, love. ’Tis overwhelming, sends a jolt of heat through Derek’s core. Tingling of nerves, wings of a butterfly in his stomach. The rest of the world has ceased to exist outside this chamber. 

“I love you,” he reminds Stiles with a voice barely audible over the rushing in his own ears.

Stiles’s forehead warm against his, as he nods and responds gently, “I love you,” his hips rolling with his words. Sending sparks of pleasure zapping through every nerve ending in Derek’s body. A moan is torn from him and Stiles surges forward to his lips, diving into his mouth immediately with his tongue sliding overtop his own. His hands have released Derek’s hair, wrapping tight around his shoulders, palms flat on the blades of them. Derek finds himself mimicking the embrace, holding Stiles as closely to him as possible. 

He takes a moment to allow himself to feel this. To feel every instance of skin on skin. To feel the breath in his mate’s lungs, to feel the pitter pater of his heart, to feel the wet heat of his channel surrounding Derek’s cock with every grind, roll, and sensuous snap of his hips. He has begun to clench in small grips, his attempts to fight the orgasm will soon be overwhelmed with the need for release. His entire body trembles in Derek’s arms, tightening his grip on the omega, he thrusts for the first time tonight as Stiles loses his rhythm, as his body becomes overtaken with satisfaction and he can no longer move. He cries out, the scent of pleasure doubles in the air, Derek thrusts again and the kiss breaks only to become open mouthed breathing against each other. Hot puffs of his exhales trailing over Derek’s lips and rolling across his tongue, he takes them in, breathes the taste of the omega as he thrusts gently once more, just enough to push him over the ledge, the tight grip of his clenching as his cum spurts out in warm bursts that land on Derek’s bare flesh. Derek needs move no more, only to feel the omega’s release in order to achieve his own. His eyes pinched shut so tightly, but the image of Stiles’s sheer rapture shall forever be right there in his lids. 

Stiles collapses like a marionette with his strings cut. Breathing heavily, sweat stained and exhausted while pleasure thrums through the air, entangling them in a web so intimate, so secure, so strong that Derek believes wholeheartedly in this moment there could be no such thing as evil in this world, there is no existence of bad, there is nothing, nothing at all but joy. 

A hand slides up the length of Stiles’s spine, resting on the back of his head to tenderly nudge him out of Derek’s neck. He needs look upon his face, see his eyes, take inventory of his kiss swollen lips, of the marks that have been left behind by his beard on the pale surface of his mate. 

Stiles grunts, nuzzles in closer in attempt to refuse. His scent is still luxuriously silky, smooth, content and at ease in his skin, in this chambers, aboard this ship, in Derek’s lap. Derek’s cock still buried inside him. Derek rumbles, deep and resonant, knowing it is echoing through the ribcage of the lad plastered against him. Drawing all the comfort he possibly can into that one sound. 

Stiles’s fingers have begun to fondle his braid, slight self-consciousness and doubt creeping in. Derek presses his face into the side of Stiles’s head, “I love you,” he reminds him once again, “you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, you are intelligent and strong. You are incredible, Stiles, my Beloved,” he allows a smile to rise at the pet-name, “please feel no shame in this, this was natural, and amazing. But should it please you to never do it again, then know that I will never…”

At that his whine cuts off Derek’s words, his head rises from his hiding spot and he presses his lips to Derek’s gently but deeply. Exploring lazily every nook and crevice of Derek’s mouth, his body becoming lax, a heavy weight against Derek. His scent shifting, exhaustion sneaking in, threading through the content and sated sweetness. 

He pulls away, but does not go far, leaning forehead to forehead. Taking in deep breaths, heavy lungfuls of their mingled scents, calming himself completely before admitting, “I shall clean us.”

“Nay,” Derek responds immediately, “you shall lie back,” sliding a hand through his sweat dampened hair, “over on the dry side of the bedding,” adding with a gentle smile when Stiles’s face becomes visible, “rest. I would be pleased to do the rest,” he motions over the general area of their center mass. His alpha supplies that he would be pleased to rub Stiles’s cum into his skin, that he would be pleased to press a finger inside of him and rub his own cum throughout Stiles’s insides. But it does not matter if the alpha gets everything it desires, he is preening enough at the scent of content, pliant, pleased, and sated omega still wrapped ‘round him, “have your legs gone numb?”

“Indeed Captain, they are quite loaded with bricks and sinking to the depths of Davy Jones’s locker,” his eyes twinkle, a slight smile tickling the corners of his lips.

Derek presses a quick kiss to that smile, taking his buttocks in his hands and lifting himself and Stiles off the bedding. When his cock slips out, Stiles whines high and reedy, a pink flush chasing the sound before he laughs and buries his face in Derek’s neck. The waves of his breathy chuckle across the healed bite mark sending tingles careening around inside his body once more. He shudders with it which brings forth a hearty laugh from the omega, wrapping his arms and legs tighter ‘round Derek’s body. Instead of lying him back on the bedding as was his intention, he takes the steps towards the bathing basin. The water is used from earlier, but it will still do better than nothing at all.

Dragging a blouse overtop the wood of the desk, he sets Stiles’s rump upon it. Wishing he had pillows of the finest quality to perch him on. 

Stiles rolls his eyes at the gesture, announcing, “I am not a delicate virgin,” his voice catching slightly on the final word as his cheeks redden and his eyes dart away.

“Was this not the first time you willingly entered intercourse with a bonded mate?”

Embarrassment spikes in his scent, so Derek does not leave the space between his legs. Instead reaching to pull the water closer, wetting a rag and going about tenderly wiping Stiles first, watching goosebumps prickle his flesh. He does not respond, and Derek will not force him to. He seems not to be panicked or thinking too deeply of horrid past experiences, but there is certainly a disconnect in his eyes, and in his stillness. He is watching Derek’s movements intently, no fear or trepidation, he knows where he is and who he is with. 

“Stiles,” Derek uses a mild tone, nothing commanding in it, but Stiles immediately brings his eyes to meet his. Derek lifts a hand, strokes across his jaw, watches as his full lips part ever so slightly. Leaning in slowly, giving him every opportunity to back away, or turn his head, or put pressure on Derek’s chest. He does no such thing. Instead he closes the gap between them. Pressing gently, lingering there, breathing through his nose while the kiss remains soft and innocent. 

Derek stays where he is, resting against pillow soft lips as he blindly cleans them with a wet rag. Not concerned whether he wipes every last drop, or only the bulk of it, only enough to make the omega feel comfortable. Derek would roll in it if he could, cover the bedding in their coupling and surround himself in it. He would, that is, if his alpha had any say in it. 

When he is content with the cleaning, he takes Stiles’s hips in his hands and brings him flush to his body once more. Immediately wrapping around him, Derek takes him back to the bedding. Lying him down on his back, kissing a trail over his lips, chin, down the center of his chest, stomach, his spent cock that valiantly twitches and attempts to start another jig. Derek chuckles when he feels his own do the same, but there is no way he will put the omega through a second round of lovemaking when he is unused to intercourse in such a manner. The lad needs some rest, some hydration, some sustenance, and a handful of days to recover not only physically but emotionally as well. Riding high on lust, pleasure, and love now but those things will not always override the past memories that will most likely crash into his reverie when he does not expect it.

Derek tracks his lips down his right leg, ending with his ankle. Stiles’s hand has risen, but is not quick enough to grab Derek, instead he gets a handful of empty space and grumbles. ’Tis not long before Derek is back with a tankard of water and a plate of snacks, “up you go,” placing a hand on the back of Stiles’s neck to guide him to seated, tipping some water into his mouth. His alpha is quite intent of overtaking this eve, wanting to bury his face between the omega’s legs. He takes a deep breath, reminds himself that Stiles is still healing, he is still in a vulnerable place, he is still learning his limits and it will take some time before he can slide his tongue inside the lad after intercourse to taste them together there.

“I’ve a query,” Stiles’s voice is rough so Derek urges another drink.

“Speak freely, as always,” Derek settles on his side, stretching alongside the omega’s body, but not flush to it, as he leans back once more. His fingers toying at the top blanket idly.

“Your knot,” clearing his throat, swallowing down a blush by pushing a piece of apple into his mouth and chewing it thoughtfully as he stares at Derek’s hand. He is most likely waiting for Derek to impart knowledge upon him without him having to voice the remainder of his query. But Derek is not going to. He is certain that Stiles needs the confidence to speak freely of all aspects of their sex life before they can have a fully healthy one. So he waits until the lad swallows, eyes darting to Derek’s quickly before skimming away again, “shouldn’t it be harder to control now that we are bonded?”

“Aye. ’Tis,” he nods, taking a piece of apple for himself.

“Is it painful?”

“Slightly, but nothing to worry over. I shall never knot you unless you are quite certain you are ready. Should we have intercourse during your next heat, it will be even harder to control but not impossible. I’ve no shame in knotting my palm,” he assures Stiles.

To which, Stiles finds the nerve to meet his eyes and stay focused there, “should it be more painful?”

“Aye. But as I said, no shame in letting my palm…”

“No,” he interrupts, fidgets with the blanket, then his hand darts over to smooth Derek’s beard, his thumb catching in the corner of his mouth, “do not tell me you can take the pain, Derek. I want no part of you to be in pain when heats are supposed to be a magical experience. When they are supposed to take our bond to a next level and perhaps end in,” he flushes, loses the eye contact, and does not finish his sentence.

“Stiles,” laying his hand overtop of the one that is still on his own cheek, “there is no physical pain that would exceed the emotional pain we should both feel if I were to knot you before you are ready. Truly, and fully ready,” the small aroma of nerves that had risen with the query dissipate as his eyes land on Derek’s once again. He nods, turns his face to press his lips against Stiles’s hand and avers, “I shall wait. And I shall not regret waiting. Please believe that. And please remember that. I’ve no objections to waiting when it comes to your wellbeing.”

A smile spreads on Stiles’s lips, contentedness blooming in heavenly scents that blanket overtop both of them when he surges forward to press into Derek’s lips. 

———————

A bond ’tis a strange and beautiful thing. To feel a mate so much more deeply than only their physical presence and only what one can decipher from scent alone. With a bond ’tis as though Stiles is right beside him at all times even when across the ship. He need only to tune his hearing towards him to listen to him laugh from across the deck. The heightened hearing is not something to be abused, but rather a deeper awareness. Being able to decipher his moods even when not present, being able to scent more swiftly a shift that makes it clear he is needed or wanted. Aboard the Triskelion there is not a place he can get far enough away to dampen the senses involved. Upon land it shall be rather different, when the distance is enough to dull the connection, not enough to break it or bend it, just enough that he will not be able to scent him, or tune his hearing towards his mate. The bond shall still be felt, should there be an extreme shift in emotions in ways of pain it will indeed echo inside Derek’s own body. Also joy, should Stiles come upon something that excites him, Derek will feel it in his own chest as well. ’Tis something he quite looks forward to. Spending their days doing the things they typically do upon the island but being able to decipher the experience of the other before they even speak of it. 

———————

Life in Beacon Harbor carries on as usual, Derek’s family insists upon throwing a party in honor of their bond. Derek convinces them to keep it small, something that will not overwhelm Stiles. They already did this in Boston with a load of strangers, they need not do this at home as well. But Mother is right, as always, that a bond celebration with family and friends will only serve to make the bond stronger. 

Derek finds himself so very proud to wear the bite of his omega on his neck. He makes certain to keep his scar on display at all times possible. For everyone in Beacon Harbor to know that he is claimed, he is loved, and he is committed is quite the relief after all he’s been through in front of these people. And though he cannot bring the lost family members back that had been aboard his ship on that fated journey, there seems to be a new level of hope that he has not felt from the citizens around him in years. The families of the lost eventually move on, they never forget but they bury their dead in their minds and in their hearts, they must keep moving in their life. And for Derek, it felt as though he was not worthy of moving on after he caused so much heartache for his family and the people of his island home. Stiles has taught him otherwise. 

Words cannot describe the love he feels in his chest on the occasions he spies Stiles taking time out of his day to discuss simple things like the weather with the people of his hometown. When he sees the lad sharing duties with peddlers, carrying their goods through the square, when he volunteers his time to help clean the streets, when he chaperones the elderly upon their shopping day. Stiles is a leader without meaning to be. Though he has made it quite clear that he detests the politics involved, but his mind is so sharp, he is so intelligent and well spoken. 'Tis rather impressive for a man who lacked official education for so long. Laura has told Derek over and over that she would love a person like Stiles at her side to help run this island when their mother decides to retire from her duties. But Derek is certain that Stiles would also detest the public appearances and rubbing elbows with the important figures from allied countries.

He is uncertain of what the omega will choose for a job, and he is unwilling to pressure him in any way. His alpha would be quite content with keeping him upon feathers and down, plumping him with foods of the finest quality. But Derek himself knows that Stiles is a free thinker, a mover, someone who has an extreme dislike of staying still. 

——————

There is a day in the late Autumn that Derek returns to the chambers to find a melancholy Stiles slumped near the window. He has been watching the harbor for a few weeks now. Hoping his father would have been aboard Parrish’s ship in the Spring, alas he was not. He sent a stack of letters along with the captain for delivery. Letters from Scott, Melissa, and himself. He made the promise of visiting come Autumn, or possibly moving to the island to live year-round. 

Derek steps into the chambers slowly, making enough small noise as to not startle the lad who is deep in his thoughts. His gaze flicks quickly and briefly over Derek, nodding his greetings instead of speaking them. Derek gives him his time, his silence, moving about the room to remove his soiled clothing and wash himself. Keeping his senses tuned strictly to his mate, with his chin propped on his hand, eyes drifting across the horizon from the window. 

Clean, redressed and still silent, Derek decides to take a seat near his mate. To touch him tenderly and reassure him, “Parrish is quite capable a captain, I can nearly state with certainty that there is not a storm upon the Sea that would down his ship.”

“Perhaps,” Stiles agrees, his eyes moist with tears. He shrugs out of Derek’s grasp and Derek allows it immediately, “and shipping routes change all the time, yes?”

“Yes. There are a number of things that could delay his arrival.”

“Indeed,” he sighs, rises to his feet and begins rather hastily shedding his clothing. He is frustrated. A thing Derek recognizes he can do nothing about. Nothing but stay here and listen. The omega washes himself in Derek’s used water instead of calling for a servant to bring a fresh basin. He swipes off his flesh with purpose, avoiding eye contact with Derek all the while, letting frustration and anger coil and uncoil in his gut. 

He is fully dressed in fresh clothing before he acknowledges Derek’s presence again. Taking the steps towards him without any hesitation, tossing his arms ‘round his shoulders while his face disappears in his neck. Derek embraces him properly, keeps him close for as long as he should so desire. 

In the year since he very first laid eyes upon Stiles, he has changed so much, he has healed in ways that Derek never thought possible. And he takes some pride in knowing that the omega is comfortable with him, trusting him with his every emotion. He is comfortable seeking serenity, companionship, advice, and pleasure in his mate. He is the strongest Derek has ever seen him, but he knows there is a hole in his heart where his family should be. There is guilt there, having made the decision to leave his father and the boy he considered a brother, his homeland, everything he knew before Derek. There is guilt in choosing this. 

“There is still time to travel North. Should you desire. We can board the Triskelion tomorrow and weigh anchor,” he offers. Part of him itching for time on the Sea. But the bulk of him only wanting to see his mate happy, whole, complete.

“Nay,” he sniffles, wipes his nose on Derek’s blouse and leans his head out to look into his eyes, “as you said, there are many reasons for the delay. I should not convince myself to think the worst. I should allow hope, and I should not be disappointed should my father have chosen to stay in the North.”

Perhaps Derek will ride across the island tomorrow to check the Northern passage for Parrish’s ship on the horizon.

He nods, strokes a hand through Stiles’s hair and offers, “there is still plenty of time before the ice shall make the travel impossible. I shall await your decision.”

He blinks back a tear and buries his head in Derek’s neck again, “thank you.”

“’Tis no need to thank me, Beloved, I live for your happiness.”

Stiles grunts out a laugh, shoves playfully at Derek’s chest and announces, “and I, Captain, live for your declarations of love,” as he turns on his heel and leaves the chambers to make way to the kitchen for supper. Leaving Derek with a smile on his face that he knows is not befitting of a proper alpha who’s very presence demands respect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Psst... Sheriff is in transit and shall be arriving upon the island handsomely)


	26. All Of This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter pretty much only exists for them to have a few (well deserved) lighthearted moments - and no I don't actually have a fleshed out backstory for Parrish and I don't even think he'll have any scenes but his ship needed a name!

All Of This

Derek was acting rather suspiciously when he left the estate this morn. Not in a way that makes Stiles believe he is visiting the whorehouse, or taking up with a mistress. Not in a way that makes Stiles think he is conducting some type of business that is unlawful or any such nonsense. Just something a tad strange in his scent, a not-quite-lie when he said he was simply doing a few things today with Boyd. Typical tasks, is what he had said. But when he left the estate, he didn’t head towards the Harbor. Nor the Fort. Not that Stiles was spying on him through the window of their chambers. He was not headed towards the town’s center either. Nay, he was heading inland. 

So Stiles did what any sane person would do. He followed him. Knowing he had to stay in a crowd, or stay far enough away that Derek would not catch his scent or pick his heartbeat out of the mass of other bodies. He is certainly with Boyd. And it is certainly getting harder to follow without being scented when the crowd thins as they walk further from the town. 

Stiles may as well call out, run after him and admit he was following him by the time they enter a building on the outskirts. There is barely a soul here. There are barely any homes, the only other person on the road is a man with a donkey who has simply decided it no longer wants to haul the cart full of wares. The peddler seems rather unbothered by it, as though he has all the time in the world to get to the market. Perhaps he does. Stiles nods a greeting at him on his way by, forcing himself to keep the vocal greeting at bay. He may in a typical day offer to help, but he cannot risk being heard just yet. 

Taking the turn that Derek did, he comes to the realization that he was not paying near enough attention to his surroundings, as he enters a large stable. A stable full of horses that, “Stiles,” wants to touch, caress their shining coats, feel their muscled bulk beneath his hands, “Stiles,” wants to coo at them as though they are babies, he wants to brush their beautiful manes, and lean against them. He wants to discuss the possibility of going for a trot, it has been far too long, he must track down the owner of these beautiful horses and, “Stiles,” must…

“Oh,” he spins on his heel when he realizes that Derek, his Derek, was speaking his name. And Stiles was petting a horse that belongs to a stranger, and has completely overstepped any and all boundaries by leaning his forehead against the Arabian who is white as pure driven snow and by all hints a well-mannered, obedient, friendly mare. He feels a flush rise in his cheeks, putting his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels to face Derek, who will most likely need to apologize to the owner of this beautiful mare on his omega’s behalf. 

Instead, Derek is grinning like a fool, “she seems to like you,” his eyes are twinkling as they dance between Stiles and the horse.

“I seem to like her,” Stiles responds, rather smartly. His eyes drifting back and forth between Derek’s. Gods, that sparkle is brilliant.

“Good,” he responds simply, turns to offer a few coins to presumably the owner of this horse, then shrugs at Boyd and excuses him from his duties of accompanying Derek for this day. When he walks over closer to Stiles, he is still grinning. Stiles is absolutely not immune to that grin so he presses his lips against it as soon as he is near enough, “you followed me,” Derek accuses, pressing his hands flat to the small of Stiles’s back.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I was simply going for a walk before beginning my morning duties.”

“Okay,” he presses his lips to the tip of Stiles’s nose, untangling himself from the embrace, “I suppose you have ridden before?”

“It has been some time, yes,” his fingers have already found the mare’s neck, petting over her smooth, soft strength, “my mother used to take me riding,” he adds softly, watching her big brown eye as it watches him.

“Then I suppose this well-tempered mare shall fit you perfectly for today.”

“For today?”

“Indeed. I was going to ride to the northern shore, there are a few stops I must make along the way at my mother’s request.”

“And you decided to do this without me for a reason?”

“Aye.”

“And that reason would be?” his gaze skirts the ground until he finds Derek’s boots, rising up his body quickly and meeting his eyes. His scent has not shifted, he is not nervous about taking Stiles along for his tasks today, he is simply feeling protective. ’Tis a little strange, but perhaps there is a reason he has never taken him inland before. Perhaps the rest of the island is not so peaceful as the Harbor? But he’s not heard of this being truth, and he’s certain if it were then he’d know by now. 

Derek has no problem meeting and holding his gaze, admitting quietly, “I am hoping that by now I shall be able to spy the Hellhound on the horizon. I did not want to get your hopes up, nor did I want you to see any remains of a wreck upon the shore should that be the case.”

Stiles’s heart lurches, not only at the idea of the ship his father is aboard being wreckage, but also at Derek’s quiet concern. He takes the steps to close the gap between them, reaches out to grip at Derek’s chin through his beard, “I appreciate your concern, but I should prefer to know immediately. Rather than wait.”

“I understand,” he ducks his head slightly, as though he is ashamed of himself for not being completely transparent in his dealings this morn.

Stiles tips his chin back up, “protecting my emotions is honorable, Derek,” sliding a hand over his jaw, fingers pressing into the nape of his neck, “but you must know me well enough by now to know that I would rather come along then wait around.”

Derek hums a response, “aye,” there is a resigned hint in his voice, a fond expression on his face, and a tinge of relief in his scent. Because even this small lie, this little omission of truth to protect Stiles’s emotions was enough to make him feel guilty. Though Stiles knows Derek would tell him immediately should he have discovered anything this noon about his father’s whereabouts. He’s not a reason to mistrust his alpha. 

“I’ve a query.”

“Of course you do,” Derek’s sigh is very put-upon, but his expression remains soft.

“Why in the worlds would a simple merchant sail a ship named the Hellhound?”

Derek snorts out a chuckle, “there may be a little more to Captain Parrish than meets the eye,” ducking out of their embrace once again to start readying the horses for the day’s ride.

“What, pray tell, does that mean?”

“Simply means he has not always been a simple merchant,” Derek smiles playfully.

“Oh secrets?! My dear alpha mate has secrets now?” Stiles presses his hand over his heart as though he is mortally wounded. 

It only serves to make Derek smile more broadly, and carry on with his task whilst ignoring the omega’s antics.

———————

The interior of the island is much more vast than Stiles had imagined. Farms scattered along the way, two of which Derek stops at to discuss matters with the owners. They take the slow, scenic route. The island sun his hot, but now that it has faded towards another Autumn it is not so scorching. Perhaps Stiles is growing accustomed to it, or perhaps Derek’s captain’s hat is still doing the trick. 

It was slightly awkward regaining his ease in riding a horse, but this mare was patient and kind. Derek looks as though he rides a horse daily, he is that comfortable immediately upon the black mare that seems to know him. Of course it helps that he is spoiling her with treats and cooing sweet-nothings into her ear that he thinks are quiet enough that no one else can hear them. Stiles pretends not to hear him, simply because he does not want the man to stop. 

’Tis easy to fall into a waking daze upon the rhythm of the mare’s steps, with the inland breeze blowing greens and humidity, the vast fields of fruit trees, the thick grove of lush forestry they pass through, before finally opening to the northern shore. The cliff is steep, rocky, and the water is pure, seemingly stretching on for eternity towards the horizon. The horizon that is clear of clouds, the horizon that bends as the curve of the Earth becomes obvious, that place where the ocean becomes sky becomes ocean again and there is no decipherable ending to either. 

Stiles takes a deep breath, wills himself to stand firm, to remain steady in his emotions regardless of what he should see. Listening as Derek halts beside him, he closes his eyes for a moment to scent his mate, the protection and safety that the alpha offers without even trying. Taking in his calm as heavily as he is capable, thinking of his father, forcing himself to believe that he is whole, well, and simply delayed. Hearing Derek remove his spyglass from his belt, tuning in the sound of his breathing, the beating of his heart, as he scans the ocean. His rhythm does not change, his scent does not shift. His breath halts for a moment, long enough that Stiles opens his eyes, looks upon his mate instead of the ocean. Gaging the expression on his face, holding his breath he notes the slight lift of the captain’s lips. 

A lift that seems as though it is going to become a smile. Before Derek can hand over the spyglass, Stiles is launching himself towards the man, somehow remaining saddle-bound as he scrabbles for the glass. Derek grunts out a laugh, makes it rather easy for Stiles to grab the object in his hands. Now that he is breathing again, he detects relief in the alpha’s scent. Takes his own deep breath and scans the Sea. Derek’s grip on his elbow, steering him to the direction he needs in order to see the ship bobbing in the waters. 

“At the helm,” his voice is soft, reassuring.

Stiles turns too far, missing the helm in his excitement, corrects himself and is greeted with the sight of his father standing beside what he assumes to be Parrish. He does not stifle the squeak of pure joy that passes his lips.

“The crow’s nest,” Derek continues, urging softly with his fingers in Stiles’s elbow.

“My father is right there, Derek, I do not need to know any further,” doing as he’s told anyway his vision is met with Scott, “Scott!”

“Indeed.”

“Does that mean Melissa as well? And perhaps Allison?”

“Perhaps.”

The squeal that parts his lips t’would be something to be embarrassed of if it weren’t only him and Derek right here. He follows the squeal by blundering his way off the mare, nearly falling to the rock dotted grass beneath if it weren’t for Derek’s hand steadying him. Somehow the alpha has gracefully stepped off his horse, gained his footing and stopped Stiles from falling with one foot still in the stirrups. ’Tis as though he knew how Stiles would react long before Stiles even knew.

He decides not to acknowledge his misstep, instead righting himself with Derek’s help and throws his arms ‘round the captain’s neck. ’Tis likely he will dance a jig after this embrace is complete. ’Tis likely he will dance a jig all the way back to the Harbor and not stop until he is wrapped in an embrace with his father. 

“Thank you,” he hears himself, voice shaky with happy tears, announce against Derek’s neck.

“For what? I did not do anything,” his hands are firm on Stiles’s lower back, he is warm and reliable. 

“You did everything!” he leans out now, wanting to meet Derek’s eyes to remind him, “you freed me from the Demon Wolf, you nursed me back to health with so much gentleness that you did not _have_ to give, you loved me until I could love myself and you continue to do so, you did this! You did all of this! You gave me the opportunity to be here, to make a life here, but also invited my father to be here, you,” he only stops when the dancing amusement in those sea glass eyes becomes too much to gaze upon. He darts into the lips that he has considered home for so much longer than he realized, kissing the rest of his unspoken words into that mouth.

The stubborn alpha begins to argue as soon as the kiss is broken, “you did…”

Stiles cuts him off with a, “shh,” and a finger over his lips, “let us just bask in the glory that is you. I know it takes two to dance a jig, and we seem to be dancing the finest of jigs together, but let us just take this moment to soak in the gratitude that I have for you.”

He watches as the lips beneath his finger twist into a smile, his eyes fall soft, his tender nod acknowledging for now that he will indeed bask in the glory that is him, he will perhaps even let his alpha preen a little, all the while both knowing he will bathe Stiles in compliments and affections soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's just the one this week (sorry), and there won't be an update next week. But I think in two weeks it'll be the final installments. Thanks friends :)


	27. Everything To Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some worries of infertility in this one. And also, I did not think this was going to go this way, but there's bottom Derek in the last section.

Everything To Me

Derek is rather unsurprised that the sheriff fits in so quickly in Beacon Harbor. Having him here seems to center Stiles, he is more easily focused when the voice of his father rings out in the room, reminding him to do so. Though the lad’s moods have not changed, he was happy here before his father’s arrival, it certainly has not harmed him in the least to have his family here. 

Scott and Allison are simply visiting. Wintering over as they said. They shall catch a ride back to the north when Parrish sails through again in the spring. Neither of them has any intentions of settling down any time soon, wanting to travel some, though they seem on the verge of bonding. 

There seem to be sparks between John and Ms Martin, something that surprises Stiles but pleases him as well. He is certain it is time for his father to no longer be alone. He has grieved his wife and mother of his only child for over a decade now, he should at the very least have companionship. And Ms Martin seems rather taken with him. 

Some short voyages are to be taken over the course of the winter, but none too long, none too serious. Stiles chooses to come along on all of them. Giving Derek the silent support and the love of his company even when not necessary. Upon the island he still spends the bulk of his days with Laura, some of them with Lydia, and from time to time Kira. John has taken to contributing in the training of the fort’s army and by midwinter Kira seems more than happy to have him as her second in command. He brings to the table a different set of customs, ones that he has been outgrowing quickly, but he brings much needed experience in ways of law and peacefully enforcing such laws. A man that Derek’s father has quite promptly approved of, ’tis not an easy feat to impress Derek’s father so rapidly. 

The estate has not been so full of life, merriment, and joy since before his siblings were murdered. Entering the place in the eve is something he finds himself looking forward to. A table full of happy souls, the rooms complete with endless chatter, laughter, and love. 

’Tis when Laura and Braeden announce their bonding ceremony and a baby in Braeden’s belly that Derek first begins to feel it. Like a small tug of longing in his own belly, an empty place that he knows is emanating within Stiles, growing larger with each passing day, with each pat of his deft fingers upon Braeden’s swell. 

While they’ve fallen into a beautiful groove during heats, they’ve found the pure bliss in their sexual encounters and Derek feels ever so fulfilled even without knotting his mate, ’tis not a concern of his. If the lad is still not ready, then neither is Derek. But that empty space in his belly lingers. The scent of longing nearly suffocating some nights in the chambers when Derek kisses a trail over his abdomen, or mindlessly traces swirls around his bellybutton. ’Tis not a thing Stiles is ready to discuss, and not something Derek will push for just yet, he will talk when ready. But his concern grows ever more intense when he finds Stiles one afternoon at the market, looking lost as he stares at the apothecary tables. Deaton has asked him what he is on the market for, Derek is certain by his expression that he is awaiting the lad’s response. 

His mind can’t help but to wander back to the first time they visited the market here. The fear and anxiety in Stiles, the way he hid away from the crowd and from Derek. He stops a few paces from him, his curiosity piqued as both he and Deaton await a response from Stiles. Stiles, whose eyes are beginning to fill with salty tears, lashes fluttering softy with moisture beaded upon them that he is attempting to blink back.

Derek cannot keep himself from closing the distance between them. Rumbling in his chest to announce his presence before reaching out, taking his mate in his arms as Stiles crumbles against him. Carefully guiding the lad out of the wandering eyes of the crowd, without losing the embrace, he does not force him out of his hiding spot he has so seamlessly buried himself in. Nose pressed close to Derek’s bite scar, taking in thick inhales of his scent as he builds his confidence to speak. Derek strokes his back, feeling so strong beneath his hands, through the material of his blouse. Rumbling as soothingly as possible, pressing his face to the side of Stiles’s head, taking his scent in to decipher it as well as he is able. ’Tis a tangled ball of emotions. One that is not easy to untangle. But the undertones of embarrassment and shame are ones that he has not scented on the lad in so long it makes his stomach churn immediately and anger boil just beneath the surface, wondering what could have brought about those feelings once again.

“I simply,” his voice is weak, only loud enough for Derek to hear, “was going to ask the good doctor if he had anything that may help me relax even further upon my next heat. So that perhaps we could,” his voice breaks and he snuffles into Derek’s neck. He knows now what Stiles is trying to tell him, but he will wait until he can form the words himself. 

Hands open, fingers splayed across his back, the slow up and down, the rumbles in his chest, the anger that is still buried deep inside him for what those rapscallions in the Alpha Brotherhood did to him, what they made him believe of himself. Indeed, he sometimes wishes he had taken matters into his own hands, had paraded them around the deck of the Demon Wolf, tortured them and raped them. Had given them the slow and painful deaths they deserved with his own hands. But deep down he knows that an act like that would make him no better than them. And he knows the guilt would eat him alive. 

“I thought perhaps if I could just relax a little more, if I could just,” his voice trails off again, his arms are bent between their chests, hands crossed over his own breast. They have begun to tap a nervous pattern, “if I could please you even more deeply and…”

This time it is Derek who interrupts him, with a low growl. And a quiet demand, “look at me,” he is not particularly proud of this reaction, but there are certainly times that the alpha cannot be controlled. And one of those times is right now, when his omega is questioning his love, his devotion to him. When he is questioning his own worth, when he is feeling inadequate. He waits until Stiles gains the courage to draw back, to gaze upon his eyes, before he states, “you could never please me _more_ , there is no more to please me Stiles. You are everything to me.”

“I know. You tell me this often,” his eyes are tear-filled, making Derek ache to kiss his lids until the scent of sadness dissipates. But he knows this sadness runs too deeply for that, “’tis this fool nature of mine I suppose,” he attempts to shrug it off but his lips twist with a painful sob that he buries in Derek’s neck, “that makes me want to provide for us a family. ’Tis the scents of the estate with Braeden and Laura, their happiness and,” his voice breaks off once again. A deep breath against Derek’s flesh. His grip tightens on Stiles’s back until he unfolds his arms from between them and wraps them ‘round Derek’s shoulders, “the happiness of the entire family. They deserve it, they certainly do. But you do too, Derek and I can’t give you that, I can’t…”

Derek lengthens the rumbles, pulling them from deep within himself to reverberate through the chest of the omega in his arms, “as we have previously spoken, rushing into any of this would hurt us both more than taking our time, than making certain ’tis something we are both ready for. Stiles, I’ve no desire to hurt you in any way. Whether physical or emotional. And this, this talk of family, this is something that we’ve time for, we’ve so much time ahead of us. We’ve been mated for only nearly a year, there is no need to rush. Should you desire a family, ‘tis certainly something we can do in the years to come, but if the physical part of it is not something we are emotionally ready for then we wait. Should it never happen between us, then there are other options for starting a family,” he pulls out of the embrace just far enough to gaze into those eyes he’s come to be so familiar with every hue of, “you are my everything, my Beloved, and you shall always be more than enough for me. So long as you remember that perhaps a family will come with time, or perhaps the family we already have shall be enough eventually,” kissing the tip of his nose when he sniffles.

Stiles’s hand rises, rubbing the sleeve of his blouse across his upper lip as he nods, having heard every word Derek said. Derek knows it shall take some time to sink in fully, it shall take patience and openness to get through this. Yet another mountain for them to climb together. 

There is one thing he needs know before they leave this market, “did you really believe that I’d want ye to be drugged just so I could knot you?”

His exhale quivers, burrowing himself back into Derek’s chest to snort, “I suppose when you speak it that way it sounds rather horrible.”

“Indeed. T’would be,” a knuckle under his chin to urge his gaze up and out, “no need to rush. No need to let the worry consume ye. We’ve time. Time we shall use wisely,” letting his fingers curve ‘round the handle of the lad’s pelvis, “and perhaps, once the crying babe of my sister’s is in the estate keeping the entire place awake through the night, we shall change our minds,” letting a smile rise on his lips as Stiles gives him a rather pointed glare and shoves off his chest, wiping at his cheeks whilst composing himself.

“That crying babe of your sister’s shall also be ours,” he reminds him dryly, “she shall be our niece or he shall be our nephew and you’d best remember that.”

“I shall remind you of that when they are crying so loudly that one will not be able to hear themself think,” he presses an elbow to Stiles’s side, beginning to walk back towards the estate.

Stiles scoffs at him, but slips his fingers into the pit of his elbow and allows the sway of his walk to brush against Derek’s with every other step as they make their way slowly home. 

———————

It has become habit to spend Stiles’s heats aboard the Triskelion where she is anchored in the harbor. Providing a type of privacy they do not have at the estate, providing the comfort of a cabin that is theirs and theirs alone. There have been enough now that they’ve become quite comfortable with the motions of it, with the physicality and the emotional bonds that are tugged and exhausted during what is typically three days. 

Having some distance between them and the family makes it easier to talk unguarded, ’tis not that Derek does not trust his family, and they’ve no secrets between them but sometimes being in the same living quarters makes it hard to focus on solely Stiles and his needs. There are things that need tended upon shore that do not even cross his mind when they are alone upon the Sea. Separating themselves completely from the tasks of their daily lives seems ever so important during these intimate moments. 

When there is no one to impress, no one's expectations to live up to, and no manners to keep in mind they both find that it is quite easy to be themselves, to let the alpha and omega play in such joyous and relaxed ways that they’d not show in front of anyone else. Here, they’ve the room to roam, ’Tis no need for clothing unless going to the deck for any reason. 

And Stiles always seems so gloriously happy during his heats now, something Derek never thought he’d see. Typically weeks later that the empty feeling in his belly returns, only to worsen when Laura and Braeden’s baby is born. She is healthy and has good lungs, she has the full attention of everyone in the family. And the way Stiles looks at Derek when he has the babe cradled in his arms, it makes him yearn for the things that he knows the omega feels ever more prominently. 

———————

Mother insists upon a one year bond ceremony. ’Tis not a wedding per say, nor is it a party for all of Beacon Harbor to enjoy. Rather it is a small gathering of family only and a hand-fasting more typically done between omega mates who have not been legally allowed to wed, in some instances alpha mates as well. Drink is poured, food is had, dancing, and joy seem to be wrapping them in this safe bubble of love. 

When the night is over and they are back in their chambers, Derek makes the offer that he oft times ponders. He knows he has reached the proper level of trust with Stiles, in fact he had reached it over a year ago, he simply was not certain if Stiles would ever be interested. His skilled fingers are removing Derek’s blouse when he stops him, draws away from his lips and states, “I would enjoy it were you to bed me this eve.”

Watching as Stiles’s expression goes from shocked to disbelief to shock again as he processes the request in both sound and scent. His face flushes and he guffaws, “you are an alpha Derek,” reminding him. As though he could forget, “that is not, it is not how, this is,” his words seem to catch in his throat as he considers the offer for what it truly is. An offer that is made in trust and desire. An offer that in many places were it to be made public knowledge could end in punishment for not only the alpha but also the omega. Not here in Beacon Harbor, of course. His face softens, mouth opening in a small, “oh,” awe dawning in his eyes while he takes in the honesty of Derek’s offer, and the added scent of his arousal at the thought of it, “oh,” he repeats, “have you, um, before, have you,” his hand leaves Derek’s breast to generally encompass his entire body in one motion, “done this before?”

“Nay. I’ve wondered, but never before have I felt allowed to be so vulnerable with any other partner in my past,” he catches Stiles’s hand in his grasp, bringing it to his lips, “I shall not be offended should you deny my offer. ’Tis simply something I’ve been curious of, have thought about in depth with you on my mind. If it does not entice you, or excite you then…”

He is cut off by a very exuberant kiss upon his lips, once, twice, three times before he dives into Derek’s mouth with his tongue, chasing every surface of his tongue and every groove of his teeth whilst his hands come back to his buttons, and his scent shifts back to the height of arousal, bringing his pelvis closer to grind against Derek’s to feel his hardness there at the prospect. He only breaks the kiss when he needs a breath, and he admits, “this is something that excites me so. So much so that I am afraid I shall not last long enough to give you the pleasure you deserve.”

Derek smooths a hand over Stiles’s cheek, cupping his jaw to aim his gaze, sliding his other hand back to cradle his head, “your pleasure is my pleasure,” making certain to kiss him so deeply that he cannot tease him for being such a romantic at heart. 

The omega takes his time preparing Derek, he treats him as though he is a precious, breakable thing that he cannot believe he is allowed to touch and hold. He does not in any way treat him as though the alpha is not in need of love and affection. Coaxing him to the surface with his fingers, with his lips upon flesh, and the dancing tenderness in his eyes as he pours over every surface of him with his gaze. 

’Tis a rather different feeling to have the omega between his thighs, to have him taking the lead and doing it so confidently. He tries to hide the shaking in his hands, but there is no use as Derek’s hands are shaking as well. He feels ever a lad again, giving up something that is so intimate, yet knowing that Stiles is worth his trust in every single aspect of this. Knowing that when it is all done for the eve, he shall be sated and taken care of. Giving himself to Stiles in ways that bring them to an even deeper level in their relationship, he can feel and scent the awe coming off of Stiles as he presses inside of Derek. As he stills his hips and lingers over him, watching his face for any hints of pain or fear. There are none. Derek feels only pleasure, only love, and only intimacy. The joining of them, this time inside his body, is rather different but no less powerful than were he to be knotting Stiles. 

There are ways in which it feels no different, the sway of Stiles’s hips making Derek want to chase him. Making him well aware of every shift in scent, of every breath he takes, of every gasp and whine. He knows the patterns of his lovemaking and the sweet intoxication of his kisses, he knows the feel of every curve of him under his hands. But now he knows the feel of Stiles inside of him as well. The rolling hot ball of orgasm in his belly this quickly takes him by surprise. He is well aware of his anatomy, and he knows that Stiles is no slouch when it comes to learning, that he loves experimenting, and he is ever eager to try new things. 

Stiles stills for a moment, taking a long sweet moment to just kiss and nuzzle, to whisper, “I love you,” against Derek’s parted lips. To breathe into his mouth as he repeats the sentiment back to him. To watch his eyes and let the words and feeling sink in, to let his body blanket Derek’s with warmth and affection. 

These tender ministrations are not typical ways in which a person would most often treat an alpha, but this is nothing that surprises Derek about his mate. He knows this lad is nothing that can be determined typical. What does surprise him is how much he enjoys it. How much he can see reflected at him from Stiles’s eyes, his expressions, his actions. How clearly he can see that Stiles deems Derek to be something precious, something worthy of deep and soft love. 

When he begins rocking once again, the deep and slow drags putting Derek on a ledge, making his fingers tingle and his toes go numb, the sensations climbing his limbs so slowly like rolling lava as the heat in his gut becomes hard to ignore, hard to control and the familiar ache at the base of his cock begins to stretch his skin. A broken gasp escapes him, hand making haste to gather his knot in his palm, to keep it from startling the omega. The lad is well aware that he knots his palm regularly during his heats, but he has shown no interest in touching it or even looking at it as of yet.

Derek is caught off guard when Stiles lifts his upper body a bit, pulling himself to his knees and exposing Derek’s cock between them, “may I?” his eyebrows lifted, his eyes wide, licking his lips when Derek opens his eyes to gaze upon him. He can feel a pink flush spreading across his cheeks, but Stiles lacks fear, the only scent he is giving is lust. His expression one of curiosity as his fingers skitter along Derek’s inner thighs. His pelvis working a slow, sensuous drag that is bound to drive Derek mad. One hand wraps around Derek’s wrist, giving a gentle tug, “please?”

Derek releases his hold on his cock, Stiles’s eyes taking in the sight with hunger and awe. His hands have gone still, one remaining on Derek’s wrist, the other on his thigh. The tenderest of smiles begins to pull at his lips, want blooming anew in his scent, “may I touch?”

“Aye,” Derek’s voice sounds rough, faraway and foreign in his own ears, “but perhaps you should know that I am,” as soon as his long sinful fingers are wrapped around the top of his sensitive knot, the omega’s hips snap, and an orgasm so fierce and bone-deep rolls through Derek’s entire body having him trembling and gasping for breath, blinking to attempt focus. Feeling as though everything in this universe is out of sort, but he can still feel Stiles inside of him, the pulsing of the omega’s orgasm and a fresh salty sweet tang of slick as he reaches back with his free hand to gather some and rub it into Derek’s cock. Gods, it has his eyes rolling back into his head and his body twitching with overstimulation but he never wants it to end. The grip and massage the omega is offering is so much more than he’s ever given himself in the instances that he’s knotted his own hand during their encounters. The added pleasure of his slick, and the blending of their scents has Derek’s mind spinning as though he has consumed a full bottle of Nelson’s Folly. 

He finds feeling returning to his fingers and realizes one of his hands is gripping Stiles’s free one, holding so tight with the very grip being returned that one would think they were truly holding on for their lives. 

His gasps and unbridled moans begin to give way to softer rumbles, as Stiles’s omega makes soothing noises in his chest. His fingers working their way over every surface of his cock with a look of awe, a spike of lust as his cock still buried deep inside Derek twitches making him cry out.

“Oh gods, Derek, I,” he begins to pull out, but Derek’s hand clamps down on his ass, bringing his pelvis in tight against him. Keeping him deep inside him. It is as though he needs Stiles to remain inside him for as long as his knot is present, tugging at him to be full, to be connected at the very most intimate level. Possibly it is a deeply embedded alpha need, or perhaps it is simply knowing that the omega can go directly into another round and he is eager for it. Certainly he shall be sore tomorrow, but it shall be more than worth it. 

Stiles curls Derek’s knee over his shoulder, turning his head to kiss Derek’s knee cap and rest his cheek against it while he watches his eyes. The lad, who is truly no lad anymore and perhaps hasn’t been for quite some time, smiles softly. His eyes so glazed over with pleasure, lust, and love that it is hard to discern the color of them. Derek is quite certain he looks no better for wear himself. His whisper is a half broken thing when admits, “I am quite pleased that you have entrusted me so,” the warmth of his breath trailing over Derek’s leg.

“But of course. You have never given me reason not to trust you,” tipping his head to bare his throat, to put his bite scar on full display and call his omega down to his neck, to wrap arms ‘round him, to hold him close, to breathe together, thrust together, and reach the height of orgasm together.

Stiles remains there for quite some time, riding the rumbles that Derek is emitting, responding with light sounds of his own. He is still there, and silent as the sweat begins to dry upon flesh, very much awake if the tapping of his fingers against Derek’s shoulder blades are any indication. Heaving a sigh as his scent begins to shift from sated sweetness to sleepy undertones, dragging himself to seated, “I shall clean us. And it will do you no good to argue with me, Alpha of mine. You shall lie there and relax, ’tis my turn to take care of you,” he is smiling, his eyes alight with glee sparkling through the film of sleepiness and bliss. Leaning forward just to kiss the tip of Derek’s nose and linger for a breath against his lips while he admits, “I never thought I’d be here, Derek. With an alpha that loves and trusts me so, with one who cherishes me. And I am so completely happy with this life of ours.”

“As am I,” Derek agrees, sliding his hand through Stiles’s hair to draw him nearer his lips, capturing him in place to effectively kiss away any more spoken thoughts for the eve.


	28. Easy In This Skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the story comes to an end.

Easy In This Skin

Just as with anything else that has happened in Stiles’s life since meeting Derek, it becomes so simple once he can finally swallow his fears and focus solely on Derek. Lying together, typically with his back against Derek’s chest, in a dreamlike state of bliss with this connection that is not only soul deep but also physically the deepest sexual accomplishment they’ve mastered. 

Derek always keeps his grip tight, but not so tight as to feel like restraints. He lets his rumbles go on in an endless sea of comfort that Stiles quite likes to float upon. His seemingly random timing and placement of kisses across his neck, shoulders, handle of his jaw are actually exactly timed to Stiles’s every need for closeness. 

Sometimes they speak, sometimes they merely lie together and watch the shadows twist and bend, shimmer, and fall away to darkness inside the captain’s chambers of the Triskelion. 

Stiles finds himself taking the pure joy, bliss, and intimacy of these moments for what they are. He willfully focuses his mind away from worrying over results of his heat cycles. Instead, drinks in the closeness of these moments, these moments that will be fleeting if they were to add to their family. He seeks comfort in knowing there is time. And knowing that Derek will love and cherish him regardless of whether or not he can provide the captain with a brood to raise. 

———————

By the time Laura and Braeden’s second babe is old enough to take her first steps, Stiles finds the ache returning. This time lacking the bitterness of the past, this time having faith that the Hale family truly does care for him, respect him, and love him like a son of their own. They do not regard his worth by his body’s abilities. They would love a child no less were it not to carry Hale genes.

They discuss these things in depth, and Derek admits one eve, a quiet night where the stars are bright, the moon is a full pale orb hanging low over the sparkling calm Sea. They are aboard the Triskelion for an errand this time. As the regal and imposing ship has become more likely to be used in merchant’s travels, there is less concern when departing the island than there was back in the height of Derek’s privateering days. There will always be threats upon the Sea, whether human or the Mother herself. It feels so much more just a leisurely stroll with each route now. 

They are sitting upon the deck, listening to the crew that has become family in so many ways as they drink and make merriment long into the night. Derek leans back against the rail, his eyes bright with the reflections of everything Stiles has ever wanted, as he quietly admits, “I suppose it it solely our decision in the end. To have children or not,” this subject that has begun to feel like beating a dead horse, “I know my parents would be quite proud to have more grandchildren under their roof. Perhaps there is a part of me that would like to please them by doing so, by putting little ones in the empty places that were left behind by Nathan, Cora, and Lucas. Knowing it is a daft thing to think, that they can be replaced so simply. A part of me still believing that it is my punishment to never father children of my own.”

Stiles promptly cuts off his words with a quiet, shallow rumble. His hands flinging out from his sides to land on Derek’s chest, directly overtop his big heart, “you cannot be punished for something that was not your fault Derek,” reminding him. As though he can just simply speak the words over and over again, eventually they are bound to be truths that Derek will allow himself to believe. 

Lifting one hand to trace the captain’s neck, overtop his mating bite scar, letting the familiar tingle overtake him as he travels fingers across his jaw, tangling in his beard and waiting for the man to turn his head. His eyes flutter shut as he takes a deep inhale of Stiles’s wrist.

“You are always telling me there is time. So, Captain of mine, believe me when I say there is time,” he takes the steps to press himself to Derek’s chest, watching his eyes as they flicker open again, reflecting the entirety of Stiles’s life back at him in the darkness of the night, “neither of us are going anywhere, are we?”

Derek rumbles his response as his hands come up to splay fingers on the small of Stiles’s back, effectively closing what minuscule distance was between them.

“Then there is time. And we shall make the most of it,” he grins, pressing a quick kiss to the captain’s lips before turning on his heel to lead him towards the sound of merriment in the forecastle. 

———————

Certainly that empty space where his children should be pulls at him from time to time. When he hears word of Scott and Allison expecting a babe of their own, he is overjoyed for them. Yet jealousy rears its ugly head and he has to bite his tongue, has to distance himself from the nieces in the manor. He takes himself out for a stroll, alone. Stopping at Deaton’s with his heart hammering in his throat as he scans the labels on his concoctions and herbs, wondering if there are any to increase fertility. Wondering if Derek would approve. Wondering if it would even be worth it.

When the man’s dark eyes discern him from behind the counter, he loses his nerve, exits quickly and forces even, deep breathing as he stumbles out onto the streets that have become home. Listening to the waves at the edge of town, lapping against shore, taking sand in and out, breaking rocks and swaying ships. His legs lead him to the beach, his feet buried in the sand as he takes in Nature, and sunshine. Finding within him the strength in his core, the stubbornness in his mind, and the will to thrive. 

When he can square his shoulders to the world in general, he begins the trek back home. Only to halt at the steps of the orphanage. His eyes filling with tears that he forces back, his mind filling with what-ifs, his heart swollen with the idea of family and love. 

There is no telling how long he has been standing there immersing himself in the sounds that echo on the wind. The laugher of children, the squeals of joy. They are orphans. Yet somehow they manage to find a level of happiness that few adults can maintain. 

A hand on his shoulder interrupts his reverie. A hand he’d know anywhere. A hand he’s known his entire life. Turns his head to be met with the care-worn eyes of his father, the hand squeezes as he speaks, “shall we enter?”

Stiles rocks on his heels. Studying the expression on Dad’s face. The open, caring, supportive depth in his irises, in his smile, in the wrinkles that appear creasing his eyes, tracing his cheeks and proving the man has somehow managed to have more happiness in his life than grief. Even with everything. 

He wonders for a brief moment if he should gather Derek first. If he should seek his approval. And then he remembers all of the times that Derek has reminded him he is his own. He is his own person. With his own strong mind. His own free will. And if he knows Derek at all, then he knows Derek would be pleased to know Stiles is seeking happiness and fulfillment of his own volition. 

He feels his lips twist into a smile as he nods at his dad. 

———————

“Have I told you of Elizabeth’s giggle? It is the most adorable thing I have ever heard. And of Marybeth’s eyes, how they twinkle when she smiles? And Charles, his little cry is so small and so,” his voice trails off again, fingers twining through Derek’s beard as he watches his eyes dancing while he hangs on every word exiting Stiles’s lips, “yes, of course I have told you,” he flips his other hand in the air as though he is brushing off the conversation.

Derek grasps it, brings it to his lips and rumbles low and deep, “your happiness is stunning, Beloved. Should I be daft to inquire whether you would feel a desire to get this process started? So these three children, may perhaps, become ours?”

“I,” Stiles starts, stops, is silent for long enough to let his whirling mind grasp a single part of that offer, or that query, or statement that Derek is so simply agreeing to having a family, “but you have not met them! I have only just met them! I am, I barely, they barely know me! I cannot possibly…”

Derek presses a kiss to the palm of Stiles’s hand, tipping his head back to look up at him. He, as is typical, entered the chambers and as soon as his boots and weapons belt were removed, Stiles climbed into his lap to speak of their respective days. Rather, Stiles spoke rapidly and Derek nodded and hummed as he listened along. His smile brightening, his eyes twinkling and his rumbles soothing. 

“You can very possibly be the father these children deserve,” he admits with a soft edge in his tone, “’tis not even a possibility so much as a certainty.”

The three of them are siblings, rather recently orphaned. The orphanage upon the island is quite different than anywhere else Stiles has observed, or heard stories of. Here it is truly a temporary home. Only a permanent home when the needs of the child in question dictate so. Talia and Benjamin, now Laura as well, are all very involved in the way it is run. They make visits often, unannounced visits of course. It is non-typical for a child to be boarded for long, as the island is such a network of true neighbors, dependent upon one another, feeling a sense of family throughout the place. Many times a child is orphaned and they never even see the orphanage as they are placed with a new family immediately. 

“Yes,” Stiles finally decides, “yes, indeed,” stroking fingers through the greying hairs of his mate’s beard, just yesterday he found a new patch of silver strands in Derek’s braid that he teased him over, “you would be daft to query such a thing Captain Hale. As it is rather obvious to me that these children need us. And I want them. I shall love them. As will you,” he adds with his forehead meeting Derek’s.

“I shall never doubt that,” Derek seals their lips together tenderly, his hands remaining on Stiles’s back as the armor it so feels against the world at large when he needs it. The comfort, the possessiveness, the affection that his mate so willingly gives. 

———————

Derek’s instinct to drop to his knees when he meets the children, proves to be effective. As a man of such imposing size, at his full height he would be quite intimidating to a small person. But upon his knees, Elizabeth is quick to approach him. She stays outside of arm’s reach, but watches him curiously as he smiles at her and greets her. Asking her queries of her interests, her favorites foods and her beautiful dress that she seems ever so proud of. ’Tis Marybeth who takes it upon herself to walk until they are nose to nose, almost, that is as Derek has to duck a bit, reaching out to touch first his beard. He rumbles his approval in a tone fitting for children, then her little fingers circle ‘round to his braid. Her eyes twinkle with mischief, she tugs on the braid and takes of with a screech while Elizabeth giggles over the sound of Derek’s play growl. 

With Charles’s fingers jabbing themselves into every place they can jab, including Stiles’s nostrils and his ears, the baby is quite satisfied to just rest on his hip and explore his face. Stiles pretends to chew on his fingers when they poke into his mouth. The baby takes his fingers back and smacks against his cheek in amusement. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he keeps track of the girls teaming up on Derek who is pretending not to hear them sneak up on him to steal his hat. 

———————

Stiles still must curse his fool nature sometimes for bringing him this life. Times like these when the children are acting as though they are possessed by demons! His fool nature had him convinced he’d be able to handle a big family, but he must thank the gods above and below every day for the amazing grandparents that are so active in the lives of his children because he is quite certain he’d lose the battle more often than he’d win them if he was alone. And he thanks them as well for the alpha, the man he loves, for being such an active part of their lives. For being the true father instead of the typical alpha that only views omegas as breeding grounds, and children as a proof of their virility. Derek is none too concerned about such silly views. Derek is only concerned with the happiness and health of his family. And it is quite apparent on his face, in his smile, and scent that he is overjoyed with the life he leads here in Beacon Harbor. His sailing has come nearly to a halt, only taking the voyages that he is absolutely needed for. Choosing instead to spend as much time with his children as possible. 

There are eight of them now under the Hale roof! Eight children! A home so filled with laughter, play, and joy that it would be hard to believe it was ever any different. The children will never be replacements, that was never the intention. But they fill the gaps nonetheless. 

———————

As the years pass, the children grow, and the love remains strong. A pillar of their lives.

Loved ones move on to the next life. Always to be remembered in this one.

Derek’s hair has gone so silver, ’tis a stretch to remember a time it was black. Not as though Stiles has room to speak, his wrinkles map a life so filled with happiness it seems the sorrow was a passing phase. A test to make him stronger, a void to fill only with joy and love. A void that has been filled and overflowed. The scars that still remain are nothing compared to the smile lines on his own face, and the crinkles in the corners of Derek’s eyes from his years spent grinning freely.

The world changes. Some places progress and some regress. It’s an ebb and sway much like the Sea herself. One thing remains certain, Beacon Harbor is a safe place. A place for individuality, freedom, equality and respect. For as long as Stiles draws breath this place will remain the utopia of sorts that he’s always seen it as, from his very first step upon the island. And he is quite certain that it shall remain that utopia as long as the Hale lineage lives. 

———————

There are days now when his joints ache, his body seems to want to give in and be done with this Earthly form. Alas, those days mean not a thing. It is the days spent strolling the Harbor with Derek, the afternoons spent teaching lessons to the grandchildren, the eves spent in the laughter that still blankets the estate. And the nights spent in the arms of the only man he’s ever loved. The man who taught him what it means to be a true alpha, to be an honest alpha, to be always himself. And by doing so allowed a space for Stiles to understand what it means to be an omega. An omega that is strong, brave, and independent while also having the very ground he walks upon worshipped and revered. 

He watches Derek sleep some nights, listening to the rumbles deep in his chest. Tracing a finger over each and every wrinkle. Dipping the pad of his index finger into each and every scar that still remains. Their history written there. Their love story written in the hues of his eyes and the rumbles beneath his ribcage.

While he knows there is limited time left, they no longer have the endless moments they both used to count on, there is not a single one he would change. Tracing over Derek’s soft lips, pressing his own against the bonding bite, knowing full well it will wake the man handsomely. He smiles against his skin when he hears the shift in his breathing, whispering, “you may sleep upon death, Captain Hale, but as I live and breathe you’ve bonded yourself to a wanton omega who requires the full attention of his alpha partner.”

Derek mock growls annoyance, but before Stiles can even laugh, he is upon his back, peering up at the face of the man he fell in love with so slowly, so many years before. The man he continues to fall more in love with, with every breath he takes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Then they died together in their sleep. The end :)
> 
> Snip, snap, snout this tale is told out. If you made it here, then I applaud you, this wasn't always easy to get through but I feel like it was a journey that was well worth it. 
> 
> I definitely didn't see this one being so long when I first started it, there were some periods where I didn't think I'd finish it, but your commenting and support has been instrumental in the completion of this thing. I learned a few things about my style preferences by writing this, and I think I pushed quite a few of my limits. I hope this is one that you all will remember fondly by the time all is said and done, and maybe come back and revisit it again :) Thanks friends, take care of yourselves, and I hope to see you again down the road!
> 
> [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/stillbeatingheart)

**Author's Note:**

> I shall give no quarter to those who leave no kudos. Because blimey I've spent a lot of time on this!


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